Hounded
by Random Phantom
Summary: My entry into Challenge 010 at the Watson's Woes livejournal; an AU story featuring an alternative ending to the 2002 Hound of the Baskervilles. Watson has to face the hound by himself; and the consequences change him in a way he never expected.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Sorry, I know I'm still half-way through my other Holmes fic, _A Shadow on the Streets of London, _but I read the details of challenge010 on the Watson's Woes forum, and an idea hit me so hard that I had to write it and enter into the challenge. Essentially, it is a challenge to write an AU story... as the 2002 film version of _The Hound of the Baskervilles _was listed as an acceptable existing AU, and I happen to be quite obsessed with the film, I decided that I would re-write the ending and create my AU based around the events of that alteration... I hope that I am successful in my effort to cross-post to the forum to enter, but if I get it wrong, any assistance would be greatly appreciated. I should also be very grateful if you would leave me a review and tell me what you think. Thank you so much for reading this - I hope you enjoy it. _

_By way of disclaimer, the first chapter is pretty much verbatim from the film, and given here by way of a refresher - I make no money from this and do not intend it as any breach of copyright. Please don't sue me; I lost my job a couple of weeks ago so I've no money anyway. _

_~*~_

Hounded

~*~

Darkness surrounded them and the first tendrils of a low-lying mist curled surreptitiously around their ankles as the three of them scrambled down the bank through the undergrowth, and dropped down behind such cover as was available.

"The blinds are drawn," Holmes hissed, "See what they're doing, Watson!"

Without a word, Watson scrambled forwards as quickly as he could, keeping low, as a tawny owl screeched somewhere nearby. His breath misted slightly in front of his face in the cold air, as he peered into the windows of Merripit House. The gaslight from within illuminated the familiar figure of Sir Henry Baskerville, seated at the table, even as Jack Stapleton stepped into view, placing a glass on the table in front of his guest.

Outside, Watson leaned forwards slightly, watching as Stapleton poured Sir Henry a drink. The owl called again as Watson watched Stapleton move from Sir Henry's side; the next window along gave him a clear view of the tall man – how obviously a Baskerville, now that he had seen the portrait of Sir Hugo Baskerville! – Yet he could not think of this man as a member of Sir Henry's family. He still thought of him as Stapleton, and wondered what evil the man was planning…

Stapleton was pouring himself a drink, as Watson glanced quickly back at Holmes and Lestrade; both were still crouched a short distance behind him, watching him silently. He turned his gaze back to the house, and decided to move in for a closer look. Creeping forwards, he brushed aside a hanging branch, and then crouched beside an ancient, ivy-wrapped tree trunk. Craning his neck, he tried to see inside through another window; he had accounted for two of the people he had expected to see, yet there was still someone missing, and worry was beginning to gnaw at him deeply.

He paused, seeing nothing but a gas lamp from his new angle. The owl sounded more distant now, even as a nearby brook babbled passed not far behind him. He backed away from the house, splashed through the shallow stream, and made his way back to Holmes and Lestrade.

"Sir Henry and Stapleton are dining," he reported, quickly, an edge of urgency in his voice, "but there's no sign of his wife."

"There's no other light, except the kitchen," Holmes noted, his eyes fixed on the house.

"She's not in the kitchen!" Watson replied, quickly, "Where the hell is she? I don't like it, Holmes!"

There was a stretched moment of silence, as the mist drifted ever closer. The winds howled distantly on the moors, and, to Watson's ears, it sounded all too much like a woman's scream.

~*~

Inside Merripit House, a joint of meat sat on the table and steamed invitingly, as Stapleton set about expertly sharpening a carving knife, dragging the metal blade over a rasp with quick flicks of his wrist. Sir Henry watched as his host began to slice up the meat, placing the choicest cuts on the edge of his guest's plate with a tight smile. Sir Henry had been disappointed to find out that Beryl Stapleton had been called away to attend their sick mother, but he had resolved not to let his disappointment show. Still, the atmosphere was somewhat subdued.

Sir Henry offered Stapleton a quick smile of thanks, as they sat down to eat together.

~*~

Watson, Holmes and Lestrade continued to crouch outside in the freezing night air. The mist from the moor was creeping in ever closer, curling slowly towards the house and outbuildings in front of them, drifting down from higher ground with a slow, inexorable descent towards them. Holmes glanced at his watch quickly; the hour was growing late as the two men inside the warm house ate their meal and chatted amicably. He glanced back towards the moor behind them, and Lestrade followed his gaze, seeing the thick mist behind them.

"It's coming towards us!" the Inspector whispered, alarmed.

"It's already ten o'clock," Holmes noted, "it can't be very long now…"

Watson had not taken his eyes from the house; he was intensely worried as to the whereabouts of Beryl Stapleton. The poor woman had been terrified of her husband, yet had done her best to warn Watson of the danger, thinking him to be Sir Henry, trying to save the poor man's life. He felt he owed her the same, if not more. He was also intensely concerned for Sir Henry, a man he had come to think of as a friend.

"If he's not out in ten minutes the path will be covered," he said, quickly, "in twenty, we won't be able to see our hands in front of us!"

"I think we should move back to higher ground," Lestrade commented, a trifle nervously, glancing across at Holmes for direction.

"No!" Holmes protested, "We must stay close!"

"I'm calling this off," Watson's concerns were growing with every passing minute, "I'm taking Sir Henry home!"

He started forwards, even as Holmes hissed at him; "Watson! I forbid it!"

Holmes reached out and grabbed him, trying to pull the doctor back into their hiding place.

"Take your hands off me-!"

"Someone's coming out!" Lestrade ducked down even as Holmes and Watson both fell back, their eyes locked on the house.

Sure enough, Stapleton appeared, his tall, lean silhouette striding through the mist towards the stables. There was no sign of Sir Henry, and Watson tensed as he waited for any sign of the young lord. He glanced briefly at Holmes, who was watching the scene intently, his eyes slightly wide with the thrill of the case.

Watson looked back and breathed a sigh of relief when Sir Henry appeared at the gate, as Stapleton led his horse from the stables. His relief turned to dismay when he heard the horse's irregular step, and observed the very obvious limping.

"The horse is lame," he said, concerned.

"Clever," Holmes breathed, "Very clever."

~*~

Sir Henry stepped through the gate, watching as Stapleton led the horse forward. He immediately noted the awkward gait, and the way the horse flicked a foreleg. Stapleton gently patted its neck, soothingly, even as Sir Henry came forwards.

"He's thrown a shoe," the young lord frowned, "that's strange."

"And Beryl, of course, has gone off in the carriage," Stapleton replied, "listen, you're welcome to stay…?"

"No, I'll be fine," Sir Henry replied, quickly, as he quickly set his hat upon his head.

"At least let me stable your horse for the night?" Stapleton offered, apparently eager to be of assistance.

"That's very kind of you," Sir Henry agreed, with a quick smile and a concerned glance at his mount.

"Not at all," Stapleton replied, already leading the animal back towards the stable, "good evening."

"Good night," Sir Henry replied, automatically.

He watched as Stapleton led the horse away, frowning slightly, wondering how the beast had managed to throw a shoe while standing safe in a stable… with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he wrapped his coat around himself against the chill of the night. The horse whinnied its distress, as he sighed, turned, and headed back through the gate towards the moor.

~*~

Watson had listened carefully; just close enough to have overheard the brief exchange between the two men. He watched, worriedly, as Sir Henry headed off alone and unprotected out onto the moor. This was exactly the situation Watson had been working so hard to avoid!

~*~

Inside the house, 'Stapleton' was pulling on a pair of black leather gloves, oblivious to the scrutiny the house was being subjected to from the outside. Had he considered that he was performing to an audience, the thought might have pleased him.

He opened a drawer in the desk in front of him, and removed a well-worn black boot. Holding it by the laces, he kept it held away from himself. The last thing he wanted to do was to contaminate the scent with his own…

~*~

"Where's he going?" Lestrade growled, suspiciously, when Stapleton emerged once more from the house a few minutes after Sir Henry's departure.

"We must get closer," Holmes ordered, already standing up in order to move forward.

Watson, however, had concerns beyond apprehending Stapleton; "What about Sir Henry?"

"We must catch Stapleton in the act!" Holmes replied, sparing Watson a quick glance over his shoulder.

Watson met his gaze briefly, and then nodded. He would, of course, follow Holmes. The three of them broke free of their hiding place, scrambling over the rough terrain. Holmes paused, suddenly, seeing the boot in Stapleton's hand, hanging by the laces. Watson and Lestrade stopped as well, behind the detective, and he held his hands out slightly, holding them back, as he watched the scene before him unfold just as he had suspected it might…and then, at the crucial moment, the wind changed direction. The thick fog rolled in front of them, obscuring their vision completely.

~*~

Holmes closed his eyes briefly in despair – of all the worst timing!

"Can't see," Watson growled, scrambling past Holmes and Lestrade, "I can't see him!"

"Wait!" Holmes said, quickly.

They froze; there was an odd sound, some sort of presence; everything both magnified and hidden by the roiling fog. There was the sound of the wind, the stream running nearby, and something else – like distant thunder.

"It's coming," Holmes said, ominously, his hand slipping inside his jacket.

Holmes drew his revolver; Watson and Lestrade followed suit quickly, as they went back to back, eyes scanning their surroundings in three directions, though the fog was virtually impenetrable. Shadows curled around them and the movement of the fog distracted the eye with every glance. The tension was almost palatable between them as they scoured the fog, not speaking, barely daring to breathe.

Suddenly, Watson heard it, and started in response; the rumbling noise was coming closer, and a low snarl accompanied the approaching sound. Then he saw it, and his blood ran cold.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

From the corner of his eye, Watson saw Holmes's arm drop, the revolver pointed uselessly at the ground as he stared in shock. Lestrade was similarly struck, his mouth hanging open. Watson's focus of attention, however, was the monster that was pounding towards them.

It was a great, black shadow, the size of a large pony, its massive paws beating that thunderous tattoo on the hard ground, each panting breath sounding like a roar in its great chest. Its jaws dripped with saliva, as its muscles bunched and then stretched beneath the black fur of its flanks. Its teeth shone brightly despite the darkness, and it snarled as it ran effortlessly, loping towards them with terrible purpose.

Then, at the last moment, it bounded over the stream, diverted its course, and pounded on passed them, locked into the hunt of the scent it was following… Sir Henry!

Watson recovered himself, stepped, turned, levelled his gun, and fired. The sound jarred Holmes and Lestrade, who both snapped around and let fly a couple of shots each. Either they had all missed, or the hellish hound was unaffected; for it ran on and disappeared from sight around a rocky outcrop.

"Get after Stapleton, Lestrade!" Holmes cried, "Get him!"

Watson was already running after Sir Henry, his revolver in his right hand, carrying his silver tipped walking cane in his left as he took off in pursuit of the hound, Holmes hot on his heels.

~*~

Sir Henry trudged along the moor-path, one hand clasping his coat close around his chest, braced against the winter cold. The mist breezed around him, constantly changing; sometimes he could see yards ahead, at others he could not even make out his feet upon the path. He was so lost in his own thoughts, that when he heard a sound behind him, he paused and half-turned, thinking that he had imagined it. Stories of ancient, hell-cursed hounds and dead relatives rose in his mind, as he half-thought that he had heard a growl.

He paused on the path, and turned back – there had been a noise behind him! His eyes widened slowly as he realised, with a horror that chilled him far deeper than the icy air could reach, that what was approaching him through the shifting mists, was the hound that had haunted his darkest nightmares. It snarled, and Sir Henry stood, rooted to the spot, frozen in place, as the great black dog paced slowly towards him, eyes flashing, teeth bared, growling as it advanced ever closer…

~*~

"Sir Henry!"

There was a cry, close by; Dr Watson! Sir Henry did not dare call back, as he stood stock-still, terrified beyond coherent thought, unable to even run from the piercing, malevolent glare of the animal before him.

"Sir Henry!" Watson called again, closer now, his voice edged with concern.

Sir Henry tried to call out, but the words died in his dry mouth when the beast growled again, pausing its advance, ears pricking up. The fog cleared momentarily, and Sir Henry saw Watson come running, stumbling over the moor's rough terrain, a gun in one hand, cane in the other, for what little defence either could provide against such a demonic creature…

"My God," Watson froze upon sight of the hound, which turned its red eyes towards him, growling ominously.

Sir Henry held one hand up, swallowing quickly – Watson had almost run into the monster in the fog, and Watson now stood much closer to it than Sir Henry. The hound had turned to face the doctor, growling, now faced with two targets. Its scented prey, Sir Henry, was within reach, but here was a new thing and the huge dog sensed the threat that this newcomer posed. It snarled at Watson warningly.

A cold look crossed Watson's face, as he slowly raised the revolver. The hound's growl deepened, as if it knew…

"Watson!" the distant cry distracted them momentarily; Holmes had fallen behind in the chase, uncharacteristically, slowed by the fog and the unfamiliar ground, "Sir Henry!"

Watson opened his mouth to reply. The hound leapt.

~*~

"No!" Sir Henry found his voice at last, and the word tore from his throat as the hound launched itself into the air, crashing into Watson, slamming him into the ground.

Watson's revolver went off, once; then twice, even as his cane flew from his grip. He cried out in agony as the hound sank its teeth into his upper left arm, tearing through coat, clothing and flesh as if through paper. Watson cried out again at the hot sensation of pain as it ripped through his arm, even as he turned his right arm and put a bullet point blank into the monster's temple.

It yelped, releasing Watson's arm, staggering sideways, but then turned and glared at him with hate in its eyes. The bullet seemed to have simply bounced off the monster's skull, and although blood dripped from the wound in its skin, it seemed virtually unaffected. Watson shuddered, even as he gripped his shredded arm. The shot could not have missed – it's skull must be tougher than iron!

The hound turned and paced slowly towards him, even as Watson saw his own blood dripping from its jaws. It growled, the deep rumble echoing from its cavernous chest.

Watson raised his revolver again, and emptied the remaining chambers into the creature. It did not fall, and barely seemed affected by the bullets, and Watson wondered, insanely, through a haze of pain and blood loss, whether this was indeed a hound sent from hell itself, if nothing could kill it.

"My God! Watson!" Holmes appeared over the ridge, taking in the scene before him.

Holmes raised his gun, and fired; the hammer fell with a damp click, and he swore; he had stumbled, dropped the gun, and now the powder in the chamber was damp. The hound ignored him; Watson was on the ground, helpless before it, his right hand clamped around his upper left arm, gasping for breath. The hound was almost upon him, clearly ready to finish the foul job it had started, even as Sir Henry stood by in dumb shock, staring in fixed horror.

The fog shifted again, a shaft of moonlight broke through momentarily, and something shone in the grass nearby. Holmes was already snatching it up even as his mind processed what the item was; Watson's sturdy walking cane, the silver tip sharpened to afford a better grip on soil, meant for hill-walking and rough ground. It had been the reason he had chosen this particular cane to bring to Dartmoor.

The hound was so fixed on Watson that it did not have time to react when Holmes, clutching the cane in both hands, like a spear, ran at the hound and rammed the sharp point into its flank with all of his strength.

The hound let out an unearthly howl that shook the ground and echoed around them, before it crashed over onto its side. Its paws twitched once or twice as it struggled for a moment, then it slumped over heavily, and lay completely still.

~*~

"Watson!"

Holmes shot forward and dropped to his knees beside the fallen doctor, even as Watson struggled to sit up. Holmes slipped his hand beneath Watson's shoulder, supporting him as Holmes's eyes swept the damage done to his arm.

"Oh my God…" Holmes breathed, "Watson…"

"It's…it's… I'm fine, Holmes," Watson gasped, the pallor of his face belying his words, "Sir… Sir Henry?"

"I'm here," Sir Henry, almost as white as Watson, staggered forwards, "I'm unhurt, doctor – thanks to you."

Watson nodded, relieved, not trusting himself to speak. His arm burned with a deep, fiery pain, and the hand he had clamped over the wound was doing little to staunch the bleeding. He was beginning to feel light-headed, even as he watched Sir Henry cross over to the dead dog, Watson's cane still sticking out of its side.

"What is it?" Sir Henry mused, stunned, "It… I saw the doctor empty his revolver into the thing at point blank range and it kept going!"

"It's dead, whatever it is," Holmes replied, as Sir Henry gave it an experimental nudge with his foot.

Watson opened his mouth to comment, but pain flashed up his arm and he groaned aloud. Holmes's concerned expression swam before his eyes, his grip on Watson tightening, calling his name, even as Watson felt himself slipping into darkness.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes swore, attracting the attention of Sir Henry, as Watson shuddered and went limp in the detective's arms. Holmes's fingers, chilled to the bone by the cold night, quickly checked for a pulse, and he was relieved to find one.

"He's badly hurt," Holmes murmured, gently examining the horrific wound, "Sir Henry, we must get him to Baskerville Hall."

"It's not too far from here," Sir Henry replied, quickly, "if you can carry him, I will run ahead and send for Dr Mortimer…?"

"Please; do so," Holmes nodded.

Sir Henry turned, and took off at a sprint. Holmes quickly removed his cravat, and used it to bind Watson's wounded arm as best he could, alarmed at how quickly the blood seeped through the material. He lifted his friend carefully in his arms, grateful that, at least for now, he was unconscious and would be spared the pain that movement would otherwise have caused. Casting one last glance at the dead beast at his feet, Holmes struck out along the moor-path after Sir Henry, carrying Watson to safety as quickly as he could.

~*~

Holmes reached Baskerville Hall and was met by Mrs Barrymore, whose eyes were red from tears but there was a determined look on her face.

"Follow me, Mr Holmes."

She led him through to the dining room, where the table had been hastily cleared, and a clean sheet laid over it. Sir Henry was there, pacing fretfully; he turned to face them as Holmes entered, staggering slightly under Watson's weight.

"Holmes! Thank God. I've sent Barrymore for Dr. Mortimer. Here, let's get him on the table…"

The American helped Holmes to lay Watson on the table, and the doctor gave a low moan in response.

"Watson? Mrs Barrymore – we need hot water, strong scissors, and towels," Holmes said, quickly.

"Can you treat this?" Sir Henry asked, his face pinched with concern, "This man saved my life, Holmes – I will do whatever you ask of me to return the favour!"

"Let us hope that Dr Mortimer arrives soon; my medical skills are limited to poisons and pathology," Holmes replied, grimly, "but we can at least bathe and bind the wound until the doctor's arrival."

Mrs Barrymore reappeared moments later with a bowl of water, several towels draped over her arms, and dressmaker's scissors in her apron pocket. She set the items down, and, without further prompting, went to fetch a pillow and blanket. Holmes carefully peeled off the blood-soaked cravat, using the scissors to cut away the fabric of Watson's coat, jacket and shirt. With the material cast aside, the horrific extent of the wounds was exposed to Holmes's intense scrutiny. He heard Sir Henry gasp, even as his own throat knotted in sympathy at the sight of the deep lacerations of the bite.

"We need to clean this wound," Holmes said, tersely, "the hound's bite is most likely foul with filth…"

Mrs Barrymore was back again; "Will this help, sir?"

"Good, woman! Good!" Holmes pounced on the bag she held out to him; Watson's medical kit.

He rifled through it, and found a bottle of morphine, a syringe, antiseptic and a roll of bandages.

"Hold him still," Holmes ordered, as he rolled up his shirt sleeves, "I'll give him some morphine, but this it still going to hurt."

Sir Henry obeyed, holding down Watson's shoulders as Mrs Barrymore stood by, watching wide-eyed. Holmes administered the pain-killer into Watson's good arm; if Sir Henry had even observed the track-marks in Holmes's own exposed arm or his proficiency with the needle, he did not comment upon it. Holmes uncorked the bottle of antiseptic, and, with only a moment's hesitation, he poured it neat over the torn skin.

Watson gasped and snapped back to consciousness, a pained cry escaping his lips. Holmes suppressed a wince as Watson shuddered under the stinging fire of the antiseptic.

"Steady, Watson, steady," Holmes laid a reassuring hand on his friend's chest, pushing him back to lie down upon the table, "I am attempting to treat the wound."

"Don't… don't even… think about… trying to… stitch it," Watson gasped out, warningly.

"You need have no fears on that front, Watson," Holmes replied, sincerely, "Dr Mortimer will be here soon. I have given you morphine for the pain… it will take effect shortly."

Watson nodded in understanding, flinched, and gritted his teeth against a moan of pain. Sweat stood out on his forehead, even as he shivered slightly, no doubt from the hurt, shock and blood-loss. Holmes murmured to him soothingly, even as he continued to wash away the blood and apply more antiseptic in liberal amounts.

Suddenly, Watson reached up, and grabbed the front of Holmes's shirt, the blood on his fingers staining the cotton a deep, crimson red.

"Did you… did you find her?" he hissed, through the pain.

"Who?" Holmes frowned, and then his eyes widened in realisation, as he whispered, "Stapleton! I have left Lestrade alone with that viper!"

"You… you must find… Miss… Mrs… his wife…"

"Stapleton's wife?" Sir Henry repeated, "he's delirious – Stapleton has no wife, only his sister!"

"No, Sir Henry," Holmes sighed, as Watson slumped back on the table, "the woman you thought of as Stapleton's sister is in fact his wife…"

Further explanation was cut off by the arrival of Dr Mortimer, preceded by Barrymore, who flung open the door without ceremony, allowing the doctor to come rushing in, clutching his medical kit-bag.

"Oh my God," the doctor breathed, in a low voice, even as he set his bag down on the foot of the table and shrugged out of his cloak.

"Take care of him, doctor," Holmes snapped, "I must go after Stapleton!"

~*~

Holmes borrowed a horse, and galloped full tilt to Merripit House. It took but a few minutes to arrive, but it seemed like forever. The horse trotted to a halt, as Holmes reined it in outside the door. He was greeted by the sight of Lestrade, staggering out of the front door, one hand clamped to his temple.

"Lestrade!" Holmes cried, sharply.

The Inspector stumbled over to him, grabbing the horse's reins for support, even as the animal stamped and whickered at him.

"Holmes," Lestrade groaned, "I'm sorry… he was sitting there so calmly one minute, then the next he grabbed my gun… hit my head… he's gone; I'm so sorry…"

"His wife?"

"He… he killed her," Lestrade hung his head, "I found her body hanging in one of the stables. I'll kill him when I get my hands on him, Holmes; so help me God, I'll kill him."

"We will not find him in this fog, and Watson stated that there were none who knew the mire paths better than Stapleton," Holmes said, quickly, proffering his hand, "come, Inspector, quickly. Watson has been bitten by the hound, though the beast is dead… we will return to Baskerville Hall and make a full search tomorrow morning in proper light, with the local constabulary and the prison guards."

Lestrade accepted the hand, and hauled himself onto the horse's back, seating himself behind Holmes. He tried to adopt a casual grip on the saddle, but when Holmes kicked the horse into a jerking gallop, Lestrade wound up hanging onto the detective for dear life.

~*~

Holmes burst into the dining room, and found only Mrs Barrymore, cleaning away the bloodstained sheets and towels. His questioning gaze met hers, and she bobbed a nervous curtsey.

"They're in the doctor's bedroom, sir," she told him, "up the main stairs; first door on the right."

Holmes nodded sharply and leapt back, almost crashing into Lestrade, who jumped out of the way and then followed Holmes up the stairs. The door was open, and Holmes slipped inside silently. Sir Henry was slumped in an armchair, nursing a glass of brandy, his hand shaking slightly. Dr Mortimer sat beside the bed, keeping a watchful eye on his patient. Holmes crossed over to the bed without greeting, leaving Lestrade to introduce himself to Sir Henry.

"How is he?" Holmes asked, as Dr Mortimer vacated the chair and allowed him to sit down.

"The morphine seems to be having little effect," Dr Mortimer replied, a trace of concern lacing his voice, despite his professional tone, "I have given him far more than the recommended dose, yet he remains semi-conscious. I am afraid the wound is infected; there is a high fever upon him."

Holmes frowned, and leaned forwards. Watson lay on the bed, wrapped in a light blanket, sweating and shivering, muttering incoherently, twitching in semi-wakefulness. Holmes reached out and gently placed his hand on Watson's good arm. His heart sank when he felt the heat emanating through the thin cotton shirt-sleeve.

"What can you do?"

"I'm doing what I can to keep the fever down; I have cleaned the wound, sutured it and wrapped it in a poultice to draw out the infection," Dr Mortimer replied, "but the fever is dangerously high."

"It's come on very suddenly, so soon after the wound," Holmes remarked.

"Who knows how a mortal man can survive the bite of such a demonic beast?" Sir Henry said, in a low voice, "The teeth of hell have him, Holmes."

Holmes scowled at the other man, but did not dignify the sentiment with a response. He fixed Dr Mortimer with a piercing glare.

"Do everything you can, doctor," Holmes ordered, "Stapleton has escaped; Inspector Lestrade will conduct the search."

"Holmes?" Lestrade frowned.

"I will not leave him to face this alone," Holmes said as he laid a hand on Watson's arm, almost too quietly for the Inspector to hear.

Almost.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Watson was aware, first, of the fire. It burned across his arm, through his chest, and spread through his body, an agonising inferno that he could not run from. There was pain, too; throbbing through his arm where sharp teeth had rent his flesh, almost stripping it from the bone. Then there was thirst; intense, parching, and he tried to cry out for help, for relief, for water, for Holmes… but no sound came, and there was no respite.

Suddenly, there was a damp, cooling sensation across his brow, and he gasped, almost weeping at the relief of it. A similar coldness was suddenly spread across his chest, and he was vaguely aware of voices, talking to him and over him, even as a gentle touch wiped a cold, wet cloth across his face.

"Watson?"

He tried to open his eyes, and tried to respond to Holmes's voice; he had never heard such blatant, breathless concern from the great detective before. However, he lacked the strength; from somewhere, he heard in incomprehensible moan of pain, and wondered who else it was who suffered such torment.

"Watson, your fever is spiking; Dr Mortimer says that this is the crisis point. Watson, you must be strong! Stay with me!"

Watson tried to reply, but a fresh wave of pain made him gasp. He shuddered in response to it, and then, his strength spent, he fell into blessed, cold darkness.

~*~

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed.

A terrible shudder passed through Watson, before he went limp on the bed. Holmes and Dr Mortimer had started forwards in alarm, but Holmes fell back in relief when he saw the gentle rise and fall of Watson's chest, beneath the wet towel they had draped over him in an effort to cool him down and break the fever.

Dr Mortimer made a brief examination, and then nodded in satisfaction.

"The fever has broken, and is already falling," Dr Mortimer reported, "he is sleeping restfully now, at least, though it will probably be a few days before he is able to be up and about."

Holmes did not reply; he was exhausted, though he refused to give in to the demands of his own body. It had been a long battle; Watson's fever had spiked twice before the crisis, and he had stayed up all night with Dr Mortimer and well into morning before the fever broke. Sir Henry had taken himself to his rooms, spent beyond reason, to fall into an exhausted slumber. Lestrade was long gone, leading the search for Stapleton out on the moors with the local police. Holmes felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and realised that it was Mortimer.

"Come," the older doctor told him, "he will sleep soundly for several hours now; we should do the same!"

Reluctantly, Holmes stood. He turned, and carefully straightened the blankets over Watson, before he left the room.

~*~

Watson awoke gradually, and stretched. He winced at the soreness in his arm, and then wondered why it did not hurt as much as he had expected it to. He stretched again, yawned, and sat up carefully. He felt incredibly refreshed, and wondered how long he had been asleep. He was also, he realised, extremely hungry. Flinging aside the blankets, he pulled on some clean clothes, went through a slow, methodical wash and shave, favouring his injured arm slightly, and pulled on his jacket; flinching a little as he did so.

Through the window, he could see that the sun was just rising; that, accompanied with a tantalising smell of bacon, eggs, sausage and mushrooms, with fresh coffee, told him that it was morning time and, more importantly, that breakfast was ready. He could even hear Mrs Barrymore setting the table… Holmes was already up, and smoking his first cigarette of the day, while Dr Mortimer and Sir Henry were talking about Stapleton…

Stapleton! Memories suddenly crashed into Watson like a ton of bricks, as he recalled the events that had brought him to this point. However, he was finding it hard to concentrate; he was ravenously hungry, and the smell of food was irresistible. With a growl of anticipation, he opened his bedroom door and slipped silently down the stairs. When he pushed open the dining room door, several pairs of eyes swept around to stare at him in undisguised surprise.

"Watson!" Holmes recovered his voice quickly, "I…we did not expect… what do think you're doing out of bed?"

"I'm hungry," Watson replied, dryly, "and I'm willing to bet you haven't eaten for some time. That smells delicious, Mrs Barrymore!"

"I doubt very much that she can hear you from the kitchen, Watson," Holmes said, with a trace of amusement.

Dr Mortimer exclaimed on the rapid recovery, which Watson self-effacingly put down to his fellow surgeon's skill. They sat down to an excellent breakfast, which Watson devoured ravenously, along with several cups of strong coffee. Holmes ate a little more sparingly, occasionally giving his friend concerned looks, tinged with a slight amusement. Watson ignored him, concentrating on the food – the sausages, in particular, were excellent.

When breakfast was done, they retired to the sitting room, where, to a rapt audience, Holmes informed them all of Jack and Beryl Stapleton's true identities, and with genuine regret broke the news of Beryl's death. Sir Henry hung his head, grief stricken and ashamed that he had been so deceived.

"Where is the devil now?" Watson growled, in a low voice.

"Hiding, somewhere out on the moor," Holmes replied, gazing out of the window, "he knows this place extremely well, and probably has a number of bolt-holes and supply drops, especially for when he was out on archaeological digs. Lestrade is co-ordinating the search…"

"Then why aren't we out there as well?" Watson demanded.

Holmes laughed, but his expression was not as joking as his tone implied; "My dear Watson! Until just a few hours ago, I thought you to be a death's door. I am not convinced you are recovered enough to go chasing about on the moor."

"Your fever only broke yesterday afternoon," Dr Mortimer added, in response to Watson's dubious look, "it spiked at nearly 106f. I admit I did not expect… I did not expect you to survive. I am still astonished that you managed to get out of bed, let alone be standing here before me!"

"A miraculous recovery," Watson replied, airily, "Gentlemen, I assure you, I am fine."

"I should like to examine the wound and the stitches, nonetheless," Dr Mortimer said, "you are still at risk from a relapse…"

Watson sighed, but obligingly removed his jacket, somewhat pleased to find that the ache in his arm was wearing off. No doubt the wound was not as serious as they had imagined. He loosened his cuff, quickly rolling up his shirt sleeve to show the wound. Dr Mortimer removed the bandages with great care, and then suddenly gave a wordless exclamation of surprise. Even Holmes shot to his feet. Watson merely raised one eyebrow. Where there should have been deep lacerations, there were only the sutures remaining, over the puckered pink scars of long-healed injury.

"Impossible!" Dr Mortimer found his voice at last; "These wounds are but two days old… these scars look years old!"

"Astonishing," Watson murmured, rubbing the skin thoughtfully, "perhaps you would be good enough to remove these stitches…?"

With hands that shook ever so slightly, Dr Mortimer took a pair of scissors from his bag and carefully removed the sutures he had so painstakingly placed there not so long before. Watson thanked him, rolled down his sleeve, replaced his jacket, and turned to Holmes, who was giving him the most incredulous stare he had ever received from the detective. Watson grinned at him.

"Such an unprecedented – an unnatural! – Level of healing," Dr Mortimer remarked, "You are indeed a lucky man, Dr Watson."

"Let's see you solve this mystery, Holmes," Watson said, rubbing his arm in disbelief.

"I would anticipate… something in the hound's bite that caused the infection, but perhaps had some effect in coagulating the blood quickly, or cauterising the wound in some way," Holmes replied, though he did not sound convinced, "Very well… if you are sure you are fit enough, then we will join the hunt for Stapleton, though I fear that the trail may be cold by now. Sir Henry – perhaps you would be kind enough to lend us two of your mounts?"

"Of course, Mr Holmes – Perkins will see to your needs."

Watson stretched, feeling decidedly pleased to be able to move without pain. He could see Holmes watching him out of the corner of his eye, and could practically smell the curiosity emanating from the detective, tinged with worry and a hint of suspicion. Watson laughed, and caught Holmes's gaze.

"I really am fine, old fellow – do stop staring at me like that!"

"How do you explain it, Watson?" Holmes demanded, "I am, of course, delighted in your recovery, but… I cannot understand it."

"Nor do I, Holmes," Watson conceded, "but perhaps if we find the body of the beast, a post-mortem may help us to work out what may have caused the wound to close so quickly? A coagulating agent in its saliva, perhaps, as you suggested?"

"Perhaps," Holmes agreed, but he did not appear mollified.

They donned their coats and stepped out into the chilly, mid-morning air. Watson took a deep breath, enjoying the crispness of the winter day, and then sniffed the air carefully. He could smell the horses in their stables, and they… they were afraid of something. He frowned; where had that thought come from? As they approached, the feeling grew, and when they got close to the stables, Perkins, the groom, suddenly came scrambling outside and bolted the door behind him.

"Oh, no, sirs!" he said, in response to Holmes's request for steeds, "I don't know what's got into them this morning, sirs, but they're acting right crazy, so they are; I don't dare go near them myself, so I don't."

"Confounded creatures," Holmes muttered, "I am very much afraid, Watson, that we are therefore consigned to walking to Merripit House. I believe that is where Lestrade has set up his base of operations…"

They walked in silence for a while, crossing the moor paths with quick, easy strides, sometimes breaking into a jog in their eagerness to join the hunt. Bounding along, half-racing Holmes, Watson suddenly stopped, and dropped into a crouch on top of a small ridge beside the path.

"Watson?"

"Can you smell that?"

Holmes sniffed the air experimentally; "I smell the peat bogs, mainly…some winter heathers are growing nearby, and the air carries the distinct smell of approaching rain… but I smell nothing of interest."

Watson drew in a deep, slow breath through his nose.

"I smell blood," he said, at last, "strong, metallic – definitely blood, and nearby, too…"

"We are not too far from the spot where we encountered the hound," Holmes told him, "perhaps it is the beast's body that you can smell."

"Perhaps," Watson said, doubtfully.

They scoured the area, but found only traces of blood upon the ground. Concluding that Lestrade had found the body and recovered it as a trophy, they moved on, Holmes remarking that the blood must have seeped into the ground, which was why they couldn't see it, but Watson could smell it. Holmes failed to mention that he had been unable to smell anything from the stains, nearly two days' stale.

They arrived at Merripit House just before midday. Two horses, tethered in the yard, whickered and fidgeted as they approached, stamping their fore-hooves on the cobbles, laying their ears flat against their heads, rolling their eyes and baring their teeth.

"What is it with us and horses today?" Watson growled at the animals as they walked passed them.

"Perhaps they smell the hound on us," Holmes remarked, "it did seem to have several… unusual characteristics…"

Watson did not comment on this, as they pushed their way into the kitchen. Lestrade leapt to his feet, his half-eaten lunch forgotten, as he greeted them enthusiastically, remarking on the speed of Watson's recovery.

Eventually, they settled down to the table, and Lestrade confessed his frustration that the search was not going well.

"The bastard knocked me out, took my gun, my handcuffs and my keys," Lestrade said, bitterly, indicated the bruise that lingered on his temple, "and he's given us the slip; we've spread out to cover as much ground as possible, but there aren't enough men to cover moors this wide. We're brought in a couple of Bloodhounds to help with the tracking, but the trails are stale and I reckon it'll rain tonight… we'll flush him out eventually."

"What of the hound?" Watson asked, "The body, I mean."

"Hanging up in one of the stables. The horses are terrified of the thing, even though it's dead."

"Not just us, then," Holmes murmured, so that only Watson could hear.

"I'd like to see it," Watson said, firmly.

Lestrade nodded, and let them out to one of the stables. Watson entered first, and the smell assailed him; all blood and fur and wet dog and death, stale hay, horse manure, rotten feed. He stumbled slightly, overwhelmed, and Holmes was at his side in an instant, supporting him.

"I'm… I'm fine, Holmes," Watson murmured, and pulled away.

He approached the dead monster, reaching out to touch its fur. It was surprisingly soft. He managed to refrain from stroking the beast, even as he eyed the wound in its ribcage.

"I put six bullets in this thing at close range," he said, slowly, "I know I didn't miss, but there are no signs of the wounds, and yet you killed it with a blow from my walking stick…"

"I cannot hypothesise without facts, and there will be no facts until a zoologist or a veterinarian has examined this monster," Holmes replied, matter-of-factly, "I am far more concerned with locating Stapleton. Lestrade; keep your men out and searching the moors; concentrate on the Grimpen Mire; it is an area much favoured by Stapleton."

"What do you suggest that we do, Holmes?" Watson said, taking a deep inhalation of fresh air as they stepped outside again, "It seems pointless to go traipsing over the moor without a starting point."

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, "you spent some time with Stapleton… did he give you any indications?"

"None," Watson replied, calmly, glancing around the yard, "You said he was motivated by revenge, not money; is it likely that he will try to attack Sir Henry directly?"

"I had considered it," Holmes nodded, "now he is armed, he is even more dangerous; I doubt he fears for his own life any more, after all, he is a wanted man. Stapleton is too proud to be arrested; I believe he would rather die."

"So our best bet is to return to Baskerville Hall and let Stapleton come to us," Watson concluded.

"Precisely, Watson," Holmes agreed, giving him a sideways look, "Are you sure that you are… all right, old chap?"

"I am fine, Holmes. In fact, I feel… invigorated. Most refreshed… and more than ready to take on Stapleton."

Holmes nodded; "Then we shall return to the Hall, and wait for our quarry to come to us."

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

They struck out back across the moor, and Holmes made a study of Watson as surreptitiously as he could. There was no trace of the characteristic limp that had so long been a part of the doctor's gait, which was now free and easy, a comfortable stride. His arm, too, previously handicapped by his war wound, let alone the dog's bite, showed none of the usual stiffness or discomfort. Something about this worried Holmes, and yet he berated himself for not feeling relieved that Watson was in such rare health. It was only his deep level of scrutiny that prevented him from walking directly into Watson when the doctor froze on the path.

Holmes opened his mouth to make a casual enquiry as to what had startled the doctor so, when Watson suddenly turned and lunged at him.

"Get down!"

Watson crashed into Holmes, and sent him sprawling to the ground, even as an explosion overhead and a shower of rock chippings and dirt signified the impact of a bullet into the rock and ground on a line with where Holmes had been standing just a split second before.

"Stapleton!" Holmes gasped, "Let's get after him!"

He went to rise but Watson pulled him down again.

"He has five more bullets left!" the doctor hissed, "He's over there, somewhere – behind that tree, I think."

"That's over forty yards away! Did you see him?"

"I… must have done," Watson muttered.

He did not want to admit that he had heard the hammer of the gun cocking, and could smell Stapleton's scent in the air.

~*~

Stapleton expended two more bullets in their direction, before everything went silent. When no more shots were forthcoming, Holmes and Watson cautiously raised their heads.

"He's still there," Watson growled.

"I didn't see him run, either," Holmes confirmed.

Watson leaned forward, and Holmes watched in amazement as his friend sniffed several times.

"Coming down with a cold, Watson?" he said, lightly.

"Something's not right, Holmes," Watson replied, shaking his head warily, "That smell… I know that smell…"

A rumbling growl split the air, and Holmes felt the blood drain from his face. Watson had gone similarly pale. They traded a worried glance, and then looked back towards Stapleton's hiding place.

Pacing towards them, across the short distance, was the giant, black hell-hound they had seen only a short time before, hanging dead in the stables.

~*~

"What… what…" Holmes's logical brain, for the first time in his life, failed him completely, and then he mentally slapped himself, "Impossible. The hound is dead, I killed it, and I have seen its body. Therefore, there are two hounds…"

The hound growled, and if Holmes had not known better, he might have thought that it was laughing at him. The great black-furred beast advanced slowly, staring at him with oddly familiar ice-blue eyes. It growled constantly, and then made the odd, barking-laugh-noise again.

Holmes began to back away, but his foot caught in a tree root as the monstrous dog approached, and Holmes fell jarringly, sprawled across the floor. The fiendish thing paused, glaring down at him from several paces away.

Holmes's reason deserted him completely, when the hound's jaws parted, and it snarled at him.

"I'm so glad to have met you," the hound growled, in a voice that sounded too much like Stapleton's, "Sherlock Holmes. Conceited, opinionated, egotistical…a brain, all disembodied mind and cold calculation… you are no match for me…"

"No…" Holmes breathed, raising one hand in pitiful defence.

The Stapleton-voiced-hound roared, and pounced.

~*~

Watson was being assailed by a thousand different sensations. As soon as Stapleton had stopped shooting, he had been able to smell the… the change, in the air, already heavy with the scent of lead and gunpowder. Then the beastly hound had stepped towards them, as if it had walked straight out of Watson's own fevered nightmares of the day before.

The smell hit him, and he staggered back, falling to his knees, even as it advanced towards Holmes. Then, then… the monster, this demonic hell-hound, had opened its mouth and it had spoken with Stapleton's voice!

Watson's mind was on fire. He could smell the beast, and it made him angry; that rage washed away the blinding terror, and left him shaking in fury, that this awful thing with Stapleton's voice and hatred in its piercing blue eyes would threaten Holmes in such a way… Watson saw the creature as it bunched powerful muscles and launched itself through the air to pounce on Holmes.

Before Watson realised what he was doing, he was moving, leaping through the air, turning to face the pit-spawned black beast.

~*~

Holmes braced himself for an impact that never came. He heard the hound jump, almost felt its hot breath on his face, when he felt a breeze of movement beside him, an angered yell that turned into a roar, and a loud yelp as two heavy objects collided in mid-air above him. He turned, in time to see the black hound go crashing to the ground underneath a similar creature; this one, however, had brown fur, and was slightly smaller, although more muscular than the black dog.

Now able to see the differences between them, Holmes stared open mouthed as the two gigantic dogs snapped and snarled at each other, teeth and claws raking at flesh, rolling and clawing and biting viciously. Holmes could not tear his eyes away, although a distant part of his mind was screaming at him that if he didn't run, he was going to be next, no matter which of the two awful apparitions won the fight…

The black hound seemed to be gaining the upper hand, until, suddenly, the brown one turned and lunged, fangs biting deep into the other's throat. Blood poured from the wound, though both creatures were covered in it from their numerous lacerations. The black hound howled, then whined, pawing ineffectually at the victor, before it twitched and lay still. The brown hound gave the black one a rough shake to be certain, and then dropped the corpse. It then raised its head, and looked at Holmes.

The detective stared back at it, unable to move. The creature was staring at him with pained brown eyes that looked… sad, worried, and even… familiar…?

Holmes's mind was reeling, fighting to find a reason and logic in the bizarre situation. This apparent third hound now paced slowly towards him, limping slightly, badly wounded. Holmes wondered if he could outrun it… he wondered what had happened to Watson, perhaps this newest hound had…

Holmes stopped. He reconsidered. He shook his head. Impossible…

The hound continued to limp towards him, head drooping, licking the blood from its muzzle as it reached him. It towered over him. Holmes sat up slowly, sitting cross legged on the floor. The hound's legs seemed to give way beneath it, and it crashed to the ground beside him with a pained whimper. Holmes observed, now, that it was not just brown, but dappled with black and grey at well. The long muzzle, bushy tail and pointed ears…

"Not a hound," Holmes breathed, the logical part of his mind reviling him for daring to speak the insane thoughts that were crashing around, "not a hound at all… but a wolf."

The hound – wolf – whatever it was – slumped on the floor, panting desperately. With one shaking hand, Holmes reached out, and stroked the short fur of its neck. A brown eye flicked towards him tiredly, as he noticed that the wounds were already starting to crust with blood, as if healing before his very eyes. He laid his hand gently on the creatures' head, leaning over it.

"My dear fellow," he said gently, "are you alright?"

The wolf-hound looked up at him, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I shall be quite alright, Holmes," it said, in Watson's voice, "if you can tell me exactly what the hell is going on!"

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes left the wolf – Watson – lying there, recovering from the fight, as he investigated the area. He found, behind the tree from which Stapleton had shot at them, a pile of clothing, hastily removed. He picked up the clothes, and the revolver. He found Watson's clothes not far from where Holmes himself had fallen over, badly torn, ripped apart at the seams from the inside out. Holmes took a match from his pocket, and very carefully burned them. Only the shoes were salvageable. He heard a noise behind him, and turned to see the wolf – Watson, he reminded himself – stagger upright.

"Can you… I mean, err…" Holmes shook himself, disgusted with how uncertain he sounded, "Forgive me, Watson, I find my logic has failed me. These circumstances are impossible, and yet I deduce the facts before my eyes. Watson… you have turned into a wolf!"

"Yes, Holmes," Watson replied, tiredly, in that odd, growling voice, "and now, I should like to change back… I think I know how, but I should be grateful if you would turn your back, and just leave those clothes on the ground…"

Holmes set down Stapleton's undamaged clothing with Watson's shoes, and moved a few steps away, keeping his eyes averted. There was a noise, indescribable, loosely related to, perhaps, the sound of silk tearing, and then a pained gasp. Holmes refrained from turning, until Watson cleared his throat – a very human sounding noise.

"You can, um… you can turn around now," Watson said.

Holmes turned. Stapleton's clothes were slightly too big for Watson, but what arrested Holmes's attention most was the livid cut on Watson's face. Even as Holmes watched, the blood congealed, flesh knitted back together, and it healed without a trace of a scar. Watson absently rubbed off the dry blood.

"Is it… is he dead?" Holmes asked, quietly, gesturing to the black hound behind Watson.

"Yes," Watson said, looking slightly sick at the thought, "there are… there are some things you just don't get better from."

"We… we have a lot to discuss," Holmes said, at length, as they stared at the body.

"Holmes?"

"Watson."

"I don't believe in werewolves."

"Neither do I, Watson."

There was a long silence.

"Holmes?"

"Watson."

"I… I think I _am_ a werewolf…"

~*~

They spent the best part of two hours burying the wolf-shaped body of Stapleton, by the simple expedition of dragging it over to a mire-pit and rolling it into the mud where it sank without trace. Watson's wounds healed with remarkable speed, as they took a while to rest.

Having decided to suspend their disbelief, they eventually accepted the evidence of their eyes. Caution was agreed upon; without further information, Watson's 'condition' would have to be kept strictly confidential, a secret known only to the two of them. They agreed that research was needed, into both folklore and fact, to establish the truth of the matter insofar as they could determine it. Holmes had already begun to observe and deduce what he could, determine to learn everything there was to know.

"In either form, your senses are now much sharper than mine," Holmes noted, as they continued towards Baskerville Hall, "your wounds also heal much faster; old wounds included. The first hound… wolf… was unaffected by bullets, yet I killed it with your cane."

"Silver," Watson said, "the cane was tipped with silver! Werewolves… I still don't believe in the word! Anyway they… we… react badly to silver. It's like… poison, I suppose…"

"So you are likely vulnerable to silver, and to the attacks of other… werewolves… you can be hurt, but you heal with remarkable speed."

"Yes," Watson rubbed his arm thoughtfully, "though my original scars have not faded, any subsequent injury to the… the bite… does not seem to last."

"Yet you and Stapleton were able to grievously wound each other, and you eventually killed him."

Watson shuddered at the memory; he ought to feel physically sick, because he recalled with alarming clarity the sensation of the other wolf's throat beneath his teeth, his powerful jaws crushing the life out of his opponent, and the sweet taste of blood…

He suddenly felt Holmes's strong arms catching him, lowering him to the ground, and he realised that he must have stumbled. He tried to apologise, but Holmes shushed him.

"My dear fellow, you are exhausted," he noted, "and shaking like a leaf. I would not be surprised if the change, the fight and the healing of your wounds have left you quite drained. You need food, and sleep."

Watson nodded; both prospects sounded promising. Holmes helped him to his feet, and Baskerville Hall came into view. They stumbled inside, and Watson quickly disappeared to his room to change, not wanting to answer twenty questions about his change of outfit into ill-fitting clothes during their excursion from the Hall.

Watson eventually came down to the sitting room, in time to hear Holmes explaining to Sir Henry that they had seen Stapleton out on the moor; he had run from them, and fallen into a mire. He had sunk without trace before Holmes and Watson had found a safe path to the mire's edge.

"I'll send Perkins with a message to Inspector Lestrade," Sir Henry said, nodding a greeting to Watson as the doctor entered the room, "to tell him to call off the search. I can't thank you enough – both of you – for all that you've done for me. I hope that you will stay a few more days and enjoy my hospitality."

"It has been an… interesting… case, Sir Henry," Holmes said, smoothly, studiously not looking at Watson, "However, I have other matters that demand my attention back in London. We will leave first thing in the morning."

"I understand," Sir Henry nodded, "I shall summon Mrs Barrymore to prepare us some dinner…"

The American left the room, and there was a moment of silence. Holmes and Watson carefully avoided looking at each other for a long moment.

"I wonder what's for dinner?" Watson mused, at last, "Do you think Mrs Barrymore could rustle me up a live chicken?"

Holmes gaped at him for a moment, and then caught the twinkle of mischief in the hazel eyes, and he sighed.

"Your sense of humour, Watson, is not improved with your…transfiguration," Holmes snorted.

"Nevertheless," Watson glanced out of the window at the darkening sky, "I can't help but wonder, Holmes… I apparently have control of it for the moment, but... what do you suppose will happen at full moon?"

"We shall wait, and we shall see," Holmes replied, with a sympathetic half-smile, "in the meantime, I suggest a few ground rules…"

"I dread to think…"

"We will formalise them later… for now, I suggest that when we get home, you refrain from chewing the furniture, don't ask Mrs Hudson to bring you live chickens for dinner, and buy your own supply of dog biscuits!"

"Dog biscuits?! Holmes!!"

~*~

Lestrade returned to Baskerville Hall late that evening and dined with them. He considered the case to be closed, satisfied with Holmes's story that Stapleton had fallen into the mire and drowned like an unfortunate moor pony before they could reach him. They stayed up for a while, smoking, chatting amiably over a very respectable brandy, until exhaustion drove them to their beds.

Watson climbed the stairs wearily, glanced across at his bed, but did not get into it. Instead, he crossed to the window and stared out across the bleak moor. Through the glass, he could feel the chill, and he could smell the cold and damp from outside. He could hear the wind howling through ancient mine shafts and around the high rock outcroppings. Owls called to each other in the darkness, and the sparse clouds overhead did little to blot out the silvery light from the half-moon overhead.

The moon. Watson gazed at it, for some reason, afraid. He feared the full moon, and he knew the emotion was an instinctive one. He was growing to trust these latent instincts, even though he had only had them for less than a day; it had only been those instincts which had incited the change in time to save Holmes's life earlier.

His keen eyes swept the moor; it felt like he could see for miles, with incredible clarity. Sights, sounds, smells; how had he been so oblivious to them before?

He thought deeply about the change, and wondered at it, marvelled it, loathed it. He stared at his hands. He recalled, with a shudder, how the nails had lengthened and hardened into razor-sharp claws, the fur sprouting from flesh, muscles hardening and lengthening as he limbs twisted and his whole body re-designed itself. It was pain; agonising pain, and yet the undercurrent of joy, the power of the wolf-form…

Watson growled. The wolf seemed to stalk in his mind, calling to him. He resisted. He wondered if there was any cure for this affliction. He wondered what curse it was; how it had come to be – if Stapleton had been a werewolf, why had he needed the services or assistance of another? How had Stapleton become what he was?

Despite Holmes's frequent mocking of Watson's florid romanticism and his passion for reading fiction, he found he knew remarkably little of mythology and folklore. He recalled that werewolves were, reportedly, usually infected by the bite of another, but, preferring to kill their prey, it was remarkable to survive long enough to be converted. That, and a vulnerability to silver, and there, his knowledge ran out, beyond what he had figured out for himself; not invulnerable, but very hard to hurt and very quick to heal.

He paced his room, slowly, trying to recall how he had summoned the change. He could do it at will, he knew, but when he had done it before, it had been an instinctive reaction to the imminent threat to Holmes. Watson knew that he must learn to control it; he could not risk turning into a gigantic, snarling wolf every time a London thug so much as drew a pocket knife on them, though the thought amused him as much as it worried him.

Watson could hear Holmes pacing lightly in the adjoining room, just as clearly as he could hear the other members of the household moving around and settling down for the night. Lestrade was sleeping in the servant's wing, while Barrymore, the butler, was going around checking the doors and windows and dimming the gas lamps. Enhanced senses were going to take some time to get used to.

He poured a glass of brandy, and knocked it back. He needed more information, and there was only one place that he had a chance of finding it. But first, he needed to make preparations. He located his medical bag, and removed most of the supplies from it, placing them carefully on the bedside cabinet. He removed his clothes, and slipped on his dressing gown instead. Folding up the clothes, he placed them inside the bag, along with his revolver, before he put his shoes back on.

Drifting out of his bedroom, he moved as silently as a shadow down the stairs, and, unbolting the front door as quietly as he could, he opened it just wide enough to slide through the gap before closing it again. Hopefully, Barrymore would not check the door again; otherwise he might have problems regaining entry. Watching for any signs of pursuit or any indication that he was being observed, Watson walked down the Dark Walk of trees down to the moor-gate. He slipped through the gate, closed it behind him, and set down his bag. Removing his shoes and dressing gown, shivering in the cold air, he placed the shoes in his bag with the gown. Naked in the moonlight, he closed his eyes, clenched his teeth against the pain, and then… he changed.

~*~

Watson was relieved that there seemed little difference between his thoughts as a wolf and his thoughts as a man. His wolf-mind was better at interpreting the smells and sounds and sights his enhanced senses were picking up. He also felt a greater urge to run, to hunt, to seek out prey… but reason and responsibility kept these feelings in check… until…

He glanced at the moon again, and cast the thoughts aside. Carefully, he picked up the medical bag in his strong jaws, lifting it by the brass handle. With his new-found strength, it was as light as a feather.

Bunching his muscles, he launched himself into a loping, powerful run across the moor. He was heading for Merripit House. He did not look back. Had he done so, he might have observed Holmes, standing at the bedroom window, watching the giant wolf sprinting over the moors. The detective waited for a moment longer, and then disappeared from view. When he reappeared, he was astride a large black charger, appropriated from the stables, hot on the heels of his friend.

~*~

Watson loped onwards, revelling in the effortlessness of running. He was faster than the galloping horse behind him; he had been able to hear it for quite a while now, but he had slowed down to allow it to catch up. Soon it was running beside him, Holmes in the saddle, and Watson could have laughed for the pure joy of it. The horse stank of fear, fear of him, but it ran onwards, spurred on by Holmes.

They reached Merripit House all too soon, now in darkness, abandoned and empty. Holmes dismounted and led the horse into one of the stables; Stapleton's animals had been appropriated by the local constabulary; no doubt the beasts had adapted to their master's… unusual nature. Watson padded into one of the adjoining stables, where he forced himself out of the wolf-form with an agonised groan, before he dressed quickly. Holmes had been right; changing between the two was exhausting.

Watson re-emerged from the stable, stretching and reacquainting himself with the concept of walking on two legs instead of four. Holmes was there, waiting for him.

"You saw me leave," Watson said, bluntly.

"I deduced where you might be going when I heard you leave your room," Holmes replied, lightly.

Watson frowned.

"You saw me – outside?" He hazarded.

"Briefly. From a distance."

"You did not see…"

"I respect your privacy, Watson, despite my curiosity. I did not observe the… transition."

"Good," Watson was relieved, "I would rather you did not see that, Holmes. It is not… pleasant."

Silently, they turned to the house. The door, as they had expected, was locked. Holmes knelt, and, extracting a pick-lock from his pocket, he soon had it open. They entered, and Watson's eyes swept the room. Like a cat, he could see in very little light. He located a gas lamp, and lit it, casting a little more light to assist Holmes.

"I am hoping that… that Stapleton kept a journal of some sort," Watson said, at last, "Something to tell me how he came to be what he was, and perhaps, whether there is any sort of cure…"

"Even some texts on mythology – much as I loathe filling my brain-attic with fairy-tales – would be of use in this case," Holmes commented, "Come, my dear fellow; we will search the area."

Holmes wandered off to examine some shelves, as Watson again cast his eyes around the room. If Stapleton had kept a journal, it would have been hidden. Watson was sure that Beryl – the poor, unfortunate woman – had not been a wolf. He doubted that she was even aware of her husband's alter ego, or else she would have been even more terrified of him. If he, as a wolf-man, wanted to hide a journal somewhere, where would he…? Ah…

Watson closed his eyes, and sniffed deeply. Holmes, Stapleton, horses, stale food on the table, alcohol on the cabinet, soot from the fire, vague smells and impressions of everyone who had been in the room that day, their smells lingering on the surfaces they had touched, the places where they sat; the overwhelming smell of fellow-wolf, a threatening smell; not a pack-wolf smell…

"Watson?"

Holmes sounded a little concerned, and Watson realised that he was standing in the middle of the room with his eyes closed, simply absorbing the smells and impressions.

"Stapleton was a wolf himself, but he did not hunt down his victims," Watson said, "I can smell him in this room, but there is no trace of the scent of the other. That particular creature was confined to a stable, and never took a man's form; the smell is odd. That creature was not a man made to be a wolf; it was a dog bitten by Stapleton to become more like a wolf..."

"You will have to explain, my dear fellow."

Watson tried to formulate words to match the smells and sensations he was picking up.

"The way I have thought it through is that when a man is bitten, he becomes wolf; with all of man's intelligence, and a wolf's strength and senses; he is something other than either of the two would be separately. Do the same thing to a dog, and it lacks the intelligence of man, which is not passed on by the bite. It simply becomes an enhanced wolf. The hound Stapleton used was one he created himself, to avoid discovery of his own dark nature."

"How do you deduce it, Watson? I see no facts to support your theories."

"No, you don't. But I can smell them."

Holmes raised one eyebrow, but did not comment further. Watson crossed to a writing desk in the corner, and sat down. Stapleton had sat here frequently; his musky scent lay thick in the air. Watson sniffed, and examined the desk.

"There must be a hidden drawer, or compartment," he muttered.

"Ah. Something, perhaps, that I can assist with," Holmes replied.

Watson vacated the chair as the detective sat at the desk, and ran his hands over the surface, sliding his fingers expertly over the drawers, until there was a click, and a hidden panel sprang open. Inside the cubby hole, there was a leather bound journal, and Holmes retrieved it like a rare prize. He read the first page quickly, and then passed it to Watson.

"It is exactly what we are looking for," Holmes told him, "Come – we will return to Baskerville Hall before we are missed, and we will peruse the volume together. I have a horse – would you prefer to run, or ride?"

"Horses are terrified of me," Watson winced, thinking about having to change again, "No. I will run. Just… give me a moment to, ah, change…"

They stepped outside, and Holmes led his horse out of the stable, swinging himself easily into the saddle. He reined in his natural curiosity in respect of Watson's wish not to be observed. A few minutes later, the huge, brown wolf padded quietly out of the other stable, the black leather medical bag carried incongruously in his jaws. Holmes was still having a hard time associating this muscular, vicious-looking creature with his good friend, but for Watson's sake, he pretended at normality. The horse had no such tact, and whickered in terror, prancing around. Holmes calmed it, and glanced down at Watson. The wolf-form was almost half as big as the horse.

"Are you ready old chap?"

The Watson-wolf gave a growl of a laugh, and pounced into a run. Holmes kicked back his heels, and they launched themselves into the night.

~*~

Holmes returned the horse to the stables, giving it a quick rub down while Watson remained outside, concealing himself behind a tree to change and dress. He was straightening his tie and cuffs as he eventually joined Holmes outside the stables, as if returning from a late night stroll. However, Holmes could see the pallor in his face and the dark circles under his eyes. He might be almost invulnerable to injury, but the exhaustion of the change was all too apparent. Watson stumbled twice in the short walk back to the front door, and Holmes grabbed his arm to stop him from falling.

The two of them made it safely inside, though Holmes was all but carrying Watson, having relieved him of the medical bag. They slipped quickly into Watson's room, and Holmes closed the door behind them swiftly, silently. Watson made towards one of the chairs, stumbled, and pitched to his knees.

"Watson!"

Holmes dropped beside him, catching his friend's shoulders, laying him down carefully on the floor. Watson murmured something incoherent, and Holmes quickly checked his pulse. It was slow, but steady; there was no fever, and his breathing was unhindered. It seemed he had, quite simply, burned himself out to the point of collapse. Spending time as a wolf was clearly consuming vast amounts of energy; energy that a human body could neither provide nor sustain, especially after changing back.

Holmes stooped, and carefully lifted Watson in his arms, carrying him over to the bed. He laid him down, fully clothed. Stopping only to remove the doctor's shoes and to pull a blanket over his sleeping friend, Holmes then retreated to an arm chair. He took Stapleton's journal from Watson's bag, drew up a gas lamp, and began to read. On the bed, Watson slept, oblivious to the gasps and muttered exclamations that occasionally interrupted the otherwise silent night.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

Morning came, and Holmes had read through the journal twice, once quickly skimming through it, the second in closer detail. He glanced across at Watson, on the bed. Even in sleep, his face was still lined with exhaustion. Holmes tapped his finger lightly against his lips. If half of what Stapleton had written was true…!

Holmes stood, and crossed to the window. He could hear others around the house beginning to stir, and breakfast would soon be served. He tucked Stapleton's journal back into Watson's bag, slipped out of the room, and into his own. He completed a swift wash and change, replacing his rumpled clothing with fresh attire, before he went back into Watson's room; the other man remained fast asleep. Holmes loathed waking him in this state, but he was keen to return to London and the resources for research that were at his disposal there.

"Watson," he murmured, "Watson, it is morning."

The doctor stirred, and groaned, and awoke slowly.

"…'Ms?"

"It is eight fifteen, Watson, and breakfast will be ready soon," Holmes advised him, stepping back, "I suggest you wash, and change; I will be down stairs. Join us when you are ready."

Watson nodded, yawned and rubbed sleepily at his eyes. Holmes ducked out of the room, and went downstairs. Lestrade was already there, impatient for breakfast. Sir Henry joined them later, looking happy and well-rested, knowing that his troubles were at an end. Watson joined them shortly afterwards, having shaved and changed and looking a great deal more awake.

They breakfasted on toast, ham and eggs, with fresh coffee and tea. Watson and Sir Henry exchanged polite small talk; Watson promising to return to Dartmoor sometime in the future to visit the man he had been sent to guard and had become friends with. Holmes insisted that they leave for the early train to London; it was with genuine affection and thanks that Sir Henry bade them farewell, and handed both Holmes and Watson an envelope each.

"This should cover your fees and expenses, gentlemen," he said, with a smile.

Watson protested and tried to return his, but Sir Henry refused to accept it back. Perkins, the groom, took Holmes, Watson and Lestrade to the station in Sir Henry's personal carriage, remarking on the nervousness of the horses. Watson merely quirked a smile, now realising that, sometimes, animals were a lot smarter than some humans…

~*~

They boarded the train to London in good time, and Holmes immediately dispatched Lestrade to the dining cart to fetch them all some coffee. As soon as the Inspector had left, Holmes leaned forwards in his seat.

"I read Stapleton's journal last night," he said, without preamble, "if I had not seen the evidence with my own eyes, I would have discounted it as the ramblings of a madman, the fanciful tales of a fervid imagination!"

"What do you deduce from it?" Watson asked, quietly, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat.

"Stapleton was… converted, as he puts it… by a man he met on his travels in northern America. He made a great study of his condition, and learned all he could. He indicated that he had met others like himself, but gives no specifications but to say that they… you… are a rare breed. A dying breed… usually only converted by the choice of the wolf, or by agreement… it seems that werewolves are territorial, and either club together in packs in one area, or lone wolves occupy their own spaces. Stapleton knew of no packs in England."

"That's a relief," Watson remarked, dryly, "does he say anything of a cure?"

"Nothing," Holmes said, flatly, "this does not rule out the possibility that there is one; Stapleton had no desire to cure himself. He comments on vulnerability – the bite of another werewolf is damaging, as we observed; as are silver, mistletoe and aconite."

"Wolfsbane," Watson murmured, "I carry small doses of it in my kit as a paralytic… I think I may have to dispose of it."

"A wise precaution," Holmes nodded, "Stapleton had many ideas about the supremacy of werewolf over man, but his primary thoughts remained those of revenge against the Baskervilles. He knew his nature could be used to give credence to the ancient legends of the hound, but he decided he needed an intelligent yet obedient agent to be the hound; he could not risk being associated with the beast by his absence – for example, when Mrs Mortimer held that ridiculous séance to contact the late Sir Henry."

Watson nodded, recalling how the hound had appeared as if on cue; he had grabbed a chair, and gone after it outside – it was only now that he realised what a useless weapon the piece of furniture would have been had the hound not run!

"Stapleton found the biggest hound he could; he bit it, beat it, and brutalised it, and bent it to do his will," Holmes explained, "the hound was intelligent enough to obey clear instructions and to think for itself, but lacked the ability to become human, and was a weaker specimen than Stapleton in his wolf-guise."

"I understand the how, and the why," Watson nodded, "what I want to know is… what happens to me now? Where do we go from here?"

"Back to London, to my chemistry, our lodgings, and research," Holmes said, firmly, "Stapleton provides little practical evidence; we will approach this logically. You were bitten by the were-hound, not by Stapleton; Stapleton professed that he felt a great loyalty to the wolf who converted him, and that there is a clear hierarchy amongst… wolf-kind. You felt no loyalty to Stapleton, despite the loyalty of the hound that bit you. I would go so far as to deduce that you are unique, even amongst your kind."

"My kind," Watson repeated, softly, "Holmes, he made me a monster."

"And yet you control the monster," Holmes pointed out, "you easily retain your own mind. Stapleton comments frequently on how often his wolf-nature threatened to overwhelm his human reason; you have both sides of your nature in balance."

"For now, Holmes," Watson replied, gazing out of the window, a dark look on his face, "Holmes… I fear… I fear the full moon. Why?"

"I do not know," Holmes replied, "Stapleton does not comment on the phenomena – I have noticed that around the time of the full moon, he makes no writings in his journals. But whatever happens, my dear fellow, we will face it together."

Watson was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, at last, his voice was terribly calm.

"Holmes?"

"Watson?"

"How do you make a silver bullet?"

~*~

They argued until Lestrade returned with the coffee and some biscuits. However, they had managed to reach a compromise; Holmes agreed to buy some silver, and Watson would buy a new revolver. Holmes would cast the bullets, and the gun would be kept, loaded, in a safe place. Watson swore Holmes to do it, convincing him that even if Holmes did not need to – or would not – defend himself against Watson, whatever the full moon may bring, then there was always the chance that there might be another werewolf, or even a pack, in London, that might object to an interloper in its…or their… territory.

The rest of the journey passed in a relative silence; Lestrade snored softly in one corner, and eventually, Watson nodded off as well. He was eventually awoken by Holmes, as they drew into the station. Here, they parted ways with Lestrade, and got a cab ride back to Baker Street, the driver suddenly finding himself fighting to control his skittish horse.

"Sorry about the speed, sirs," he said, lifting his cap apologetically, "I don't know what's spooked the silly bugger, pardon me, sirs…"

"It is no trouble at all," Holmes replied, airily, as Watson paid the fare, "obviously, something we passed in the street upset your horse…"

They let themselves into their lodgings, where Mrs Hudson greeted them happily, chivvying them both upstairs with promises of tea and a late lunch. Watson was relieved to be in familiar surroundings, but noted the miasma of smells; the familiar scent of their tobaccos, and the fire, and Holmes's chemistry set… but now he could smell and identify most of the chemicals, smell the dust and the papers and the coal and the plants and the furniture…

He heard Holmes chuckle, and realised that he was doing it again – standing in the middle of the room with his eyes closed. He apologised, and crossed over to his armchair. The fire was lit, and he sighed, sinking down into the cushions, appreciating the warmth. Holmes went into his chamber, and returned minutes later clad in his dressing gown. He filled and lit his pipe, dropping into his own chair, as Watson lit a cigarette.

"How long is it, until the next full moon?" Watson asked, eventually.

"Two weeks, or thereabouts," Holmes replied, quietly, "until then…"

"Until then?"

"Try not to shed too much hair on the settee, there's a good chap."

Holmes's spluttering laughter was drowned out by Watson's protest and a thump with a well-aimed cushion.

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

The days passed. Holmes took on two or three private cases, one of theft, one of a missing jewel, and the third relating to a peeping tom. These were all easily resolved, and he therefore had plenty of time to carry out research on Watson's condition. The doctor, for his part, bore it well; he learned more subtle ways of using his enhanced senses, and did not feel the need to change into a wolf every time he got the inclination to run or fight. He began to venture out of their lodgings, engaging in normal life. At night, however, he would occasionally stand at the window and listen to the dogs barking in the streets, the occasional howl carrying on the wind.

On one such occasion, over a week after their return from Dartmoor, Holmes joined him by the open living room window. Watson stood there, with his eyes closed, the breeze fanning his face as he breathed deeply and listened carefully. Somewhere, nearby, a dog barked, and Holmes turned his head in the direction of the noise.

"I have always wondered," Holmes said idly, "whether they are speaking to each other…"

"With about as much coherency as two primitives grunting at each other," Watson replied, distantly, "Holmes, I can hear him…"

"Him?"

"A wolf. An old one, from the sounds of it. Did you hear that howl?"

"Yes."

"That was him. He is very old… he is asking if I have come to challenge him…"

"Can you… have you… replied…?"

"Not without changing," Watson replied, "and I have no desire to do that."

He closed the window, and stepped away. Holmes saw him glance at one of the drawers in the dresser. As they had promised, Holmes had cast some silver bullets, and Watson had brought a gun. It had shocked Holmes when Watson had walked into the living room a few hours after he had finished smelting and casting the silver, and had promptly collapsed, falling into a dead faint.

Only by opening all of the windows and fully clearing the atmosphere of the room had Holmes been able to revive Watson, who had been shaky and weak for the rest of the afternoon. And that had been only due to the trace fumes in the air from the molten silver! Even now, Holmes observed how Watson avoided going near the dresser; the detective wondered at the effect the precious metal had on his friend and others like him, and then hoped that he would never have cause to find out.

"How goes your research?" Watson asked, nonchalantly pouring himself a brandy, passing one to Holmes as well.

"Rather slowly, I am afraid," Holmes replied, accepting the drink, "I am forced to attend the library in disguise, pretending to be an author of fairy tales and folklore, to avoid raising suspicion. There are swathes of material, but little of it relevant or of use. Certainly there is nothing first-hand, beyond Stapleton's journal…"

Watson nodded. He had read the book, over and over, and gleaned nothing further of use. He drank the brandy, and shivered. The moon would be full in just a few days time, and the fear was growing. He wanted to know why he was so afraid of it… and yet, he didn't. As if sensing his dark thoughts, Holmes crossed over to him and gently rested a thin hand upon his shoulder.

"Watson," he said, firmly, "We are as prepared as we are ever going to be. The reason why no-one believes in werewolves is because no-one has ever seen or documented firm evidence of their existence. Whatever happens at full moon, I have no doubt that you will be able to control it."

"Maybe," Watson conceded, "any maybe the reason no-one believes in werewolves is… is because no-one lives to tell the tale."

Holmes's eyes strayed the dresser draw. He knew the gun and its fatal contents were there. He just didn't know if he would ever be able to bring himself to use it.

~*~

It was dawn. Watson had not slept a wink the night before. He knew, deep within, that the time was approaching, and that even if he were buried in a pit far beneath the earth with no access to a calendar, he would have known that it was going to be a full moon that night. He rose, washed, shaved, and dressed automatically. His shaking hand nicked his skin, and he watched in the mirror as the ruby-red blood dripped from his cheek, then the wound slowly dried, closed, and disappeared. He wiped away the traces; never again would Holmes be able to assess his nervousness or agitation from the number of times he caught his face with a razor!

He went down to breakfast, to find Holmes already half-way through the pot of coffee. He sat at the table, poured himself a cup, and drank it; the liquid was bitter, but he forced it down, and drank two more before he felt awake enough to speak.

"Morning," he said, hoping he sounded more at ease than he felt.

"You cut yourself shaving," Holmes noted, laying aside his newspaper.

"How did you… ah. Blood on my cuff," Watson noted, "yes. I never could get anything passed you, Holmes."

Mrs Hudson served them hot toast with boiled eggs. Watson ate slowly; despite jokes about live chickens and dog biscuits, he was glad that his palate for normal food was apparently unchanged. Unbidden, a memory rose in his mind – his teeth around Stapleton's throat, warm, sweet blood on his tongue… it was so vivid, he choked on a mouthful of coffee, and all but threw the cup down onto the table. Holmes leapt to his feet in alarm, but Watson waved him off.

"My apologies, old fellow," Watson winced, "my mind was… elsewhere."

Holmes gave him a wary look, but sat back down again. Watson quickly finished his breakfast, and snatched the paper from the table before Holmes could start cutting it up. He hid behind it, wondering what he was going to do all day… he realised that he still had time to get out of the city, but he realised he did not want to leave. Holmes was here, and he was already beginning to think of the place as his territory; the old werewolf still howled to him occasionally, but he gave it no reply. He hoped that the other creature would take it as read that they could share the city…

"Watson. Either you have mastered the art of reading upside down, or you are simply hiding behind the newspaper. Either way, I was wondering if you would like to join me for a lunch at Simpson's?"

"Delighted, Holmes," Watson sighed, tossing the paper to one side, "but – are you not… concerned… as to what may happen tonight?"

"My dear Watson," Holmes replied, retrieving the newspaper and a pair of scissors, "we have prepared insofar as we are able to based on what little evidence we have of what might transpire. Beyond that, I do not presuppose the facts of what may or may not occur. Dwelling on the thought will not assist us."

Watson was about to question Holmes further, when he hesitated, cocking his head to one side.

"Damn," he said, softly, "Holmes, it's Lestrade – I can hear him outside…"

Sure enough, there was a knock on the door, as Holmes got to his feet to greet the Inspector. Mrs Hudson escorted him up the stairs, and showed him into the sitting room. After she had announced him, she cleared the breakfast things and departed without a fuss.

Holmes gestured for Lestrade to take a seat; "What can we do for you, Inspector?"

"I've a case for you, Holmes," Lestrade replied, without preamble, "one that needs your… special connections. We've been contacted by Lord Hemmingway; some particularly sensitive papers were stolen from him, and he requires their return to avoid diplomatic disaster. I was summoned to the Diogenes Club early this morning, and was told in no uncertain terms that you would take this case and that I was to bring it to you to avoid the suspicion of sending a Diogenes agent."

"Summoned and sent by my illustrious brother, no doubt," Holmes snorted, "no doubt the idiot Lord left the papers in a cab somewhere. When will these politicians learn?"

"I can't say more," Lestrade looked terrified, and rightly so – Mycroft Holmes had the power to not so much destroy the Inspector's career, but to make him disappear in such a way that it would have been as if he had never existed.

"Then we will invade my brother's privacy at his club for recluses," Holmes said, dryly, "Watson, if you are free this morning…?"

"Of course, Holmes," Watson replied, secretly glad for the distraction.

They left their lodgings, and Holmes chose to walk to the Diogenes rather than take a cab. Watson was grateful; London cab horses were fairly bomb-proof, but he seemed to have rather an unsettling effect on the poor creatures when in the cabs behind them. If Holmes had noticed the way they trotted a little quicker to pass him in the street – which Watson suspected he had – then the detective said nothing.

Reaching the exclusive club, Holmes was permitted entrance, with Watson in tow. Watson hesitated on the threshold, and sniffed… what was that smell? It was too obscured by the smell of breakfast food, tobacco and strong drink for him to properly distinguish it. Holmes led the way to his brother's office, and Watson slowly followed behind, drinking in the atmosphere, wondering what it was that was tickling his senses so.

"Mycroft," Holmes barrelled into his brother's office, almost throwing the door off its hinges, "what do you mean by terrifying Inspector Lestrade into bringing me here, when you could simply have sent one of your own minions?"

"I had hoped that you would pick up on the subtlety of the matter, brother mine," Mycroft Holmes pursed his lips and glared at his younger brother sourly, "I had hoped that you would not draw attention by coming here. Whoever has stolen Lord Hemmingway's papers has them to ransom, and we were advised that any attempts to contact the police would result in them being passed onto a diplomatic envoy from a country we are currently very friendly with…"

"And with whom you would prefer to stay friends, I assume," Holmes said, dryly, "Lord Hemmingway suggests in these papers that this may not be possible…?"

"You deduce correctly, brother," Mycroft nodded, as Watson turned towards the door, hearing a sound outside, "Ah. I believe that Lord Hemmingway is about to join us…"

On cue, Lord Hemmingway strode in. He was an elderly man, with white, bushy hair and a thick, greying beard. He walked with a cane, but his upright bearing did not need the support. His eyes flashed blue, and Holmes observed the creased lines of age and worry, but the strong set of his shoulders and the sureness of his step despite his advanced years. He also observed the step back that Watson took away from the man, and the way Lord Hemmingway took a deep breath in through his nose… and then gave Watson a glare that would have curdled milk.

"Have you two gentlemen met before?" Mycroft asked, dryly.

"No," Hemmingway recovered himself, quickly, "my apologies, sir – I mistook you for another. I am Lord Jonathan Michael Douglas Hemmingway."

"My Lord," Watson murmured, and bowed slightly, "Dr John Watson, at your service. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes…"

"The world's only consulting detective," Hemmingway nodded, "I am grateful for your attendance, Mr Holmes, but your brother had assured me a somewhat more… subtle… approach."

Mycroft Holmes gave the Lord a warning glare, and he quickly backed down, smoothing his hair down self-consciously.

"Perhaps, gentlemen, if we go through to my office?" he gestured, and led them out, and down the corridor, and into a room in a different wing of the building.

Hemmingway closed the door, and turned to them.

"You need not fear being overheard in here, the room is sound-proofed and the neighbouring rooms are unoccupied," Hemmingway told them, a little stiffly, though Holmes noticed that he did not take his eyes off Watson, "perhaps… perhaps I can offer you a drink…?"

"No, thank you," Holmes shook his head, "perhaps you can tell us what it really was that was in these papers that were stolen. I refuse to believe that this is all over some diplomatic fuss that could be dismissed by submitting that whatever the documents say, they are faked."

"The papers… related to my own research," Hemmingway replied, flicking his eyes to Holmes and then back to Watson, "research into a strictly private matter…"

Watson growled low in the back of his throat, and then stopped himself. The wolf… he could feel the call in his blood. It was getting harder to think as the day wore on…

"You can speak in front of Holmes," he found himself saying, "he already knows of our mutual… condition."

Hemmingway swallowed; "I thought… for one moment, I thought that you had come to kill me. You would not be the first who had tried, but I grow old, and our numbers are so few these days…"

"I have no interest in territory. London is big enough for both of us," Watson replied, pacing the room, "you have researched the… the condition?"

"For years," Hemmingway replied, seriously, "originally I searched for a cure. There is none. So instead I studied myself and learned control and insight, and recorded my actions and observations. The leather-bound journal was stolen from my bag as I walked home last night. If it falls into the wrong hands, my career and my life will be at an end… I will be committed to Bedlam, or worse, for some of the things I wrote in there… I had hoped that by disguising the matter as a political incident, that it could be kept quiet."

"Did you see, or smell, anything of your assailant?" Holmes asked, quickly.

"No," Hemmingway shook his head, "I am old, Mr Holmes. My senses may be sharper than yours, but they are dulled compared to my youth. I got only the scent of someone young, but the filth of this city lends an overpowering stench…"

"Tell me about it," Watson rolled his eyes.

"In my youth I would have torn you apart for invading my city," Hemmingway growled, under his breath, "I cannot understand why you have tolerated my presence, young wolf. We are extremely territorial by nature."

"Let's focus on the matter at hand," Watson responded, evasively; "you say you smelt someone young…?"

"Someone young," Holmes mused, "then, perhaps, the Irregulars might find something… where did this happen?"

Hemmingway described the location, and Holmes nodded; "I know several of the pickpockets in the area; I believe that we can recover your journal. There is the matter of my fee for doing so…"

"Name it, sir!" Hemmingway said, urgently, "If you recover the journal, you shall have whatever sum you ask."

"I ask no sum," Holmes replied, "I ask only this; that you allow us to read your journal, and that you answer, here and now, one question…"

"If I know the answer, I will give it."

Holmes glanced to Watson, and nodded. The doctor turned to the politician, and swallowed, suddenly nervous.

"What… what happens at full moon?"

Lord Hemmingway stared at Watson incredulously.

"You mean you don't know?" he asked.

"My… transformation… is very recent," Watson replied, uncomfortably, "I do not know what to expect from the full moon."

Hemmingway shook his head.

"My dear fellow… how can I possibly explain it?" he said, sadly, "My house has a cellar… I give my servants the night off, once per month, every month, and for that night, I lock myself in that cellar. The door is made of wood, patterned with filigree silver and lacquered with a varnish derived from mistletoe. I can barely touch it as a human; my wolf-form cannot go near it. I can imprison myself for the night – I suggest that you do the same. Now please; find that journal!"

~*~

Holmes very quickly mustered the Irregulars, and sent them out to find the book. He had no doubt that it would very shortly be returned to him, and he wasted no further time looking for it. Instead, he stuck to his word and brought Watson a steak dinner at Simpson's, before going for a stroll around London, taking the long route back to Baker Street.

"So Hemmingway is the other wolf," Holmes noted, quietly, "You are certain there are no others?"

"None that have made themselves known," Watson replied, in a low voice, "Holmes… what he said about tonight…"

"Do not dwell on it, Watson – we will deal with it when the time comes," Holmes told him, glancing up, "Ah. Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Wiggins?"

"It's him," Watson confirmed, "Holmes… I smell him… he's afraid of something… someone's chasing him… but the smell… the smell is…"

Holmes glanced across at his friend in concern. Watson has suddenly gone very, very pale indeed. Wiggins ran, ducked and dodged through the crowds, towards them. Behind him, a tall man in a top hat, a long black coat and black gloves was running after him, waving a cane. Most of the man's face was hidden by a black scarf.

"Mister 'Olmes!" Wiggins exclaimed, "Thank God I found ya!"

"Wiggins, what on earth is going on?"

"'Ere's yer book, mister 'Olmes," Wiggins held up the leather-bound volume, "it were Andy wot 'alf-inched it – 'ee gave it to this bloke, and 'ee…"

Wiggins got no further, as the tall man caught up with him, looking strangely unaffected by his run.

"I say," the man said, with a cultured accent, "this urchin stole my journal. I demand its return!"

"A journal that was originally stolen from my client," Holmes replied, coolly, "if you wish to avoid an incident, sir, I suggest that you turn around and walk away."

"You dare to threaten me?" the stranger hissed.

Watson growled at him wordlessly, as Holmes quickly paid Wiggins and ushered him away. The boy took off at a run, leaving Holmes in possession of the precious papers. The tall, pale man glared at Watson.

"What…? Oh," the man seemed to smirk beneath his scarf, "I see! Sir, you really should keep a better control of your… pet…"

Holmes's eyebrow shot up. The man suddenly lifted his cane, and viciously jabbed Watson in the chest with it. The effect was instantaneous – Watson gave an agonised gasp, and fell to his knees, keeling over onto his side, clutching his chest convulsively. Holmes, horrified, dropped down beside him, as the mysterious man turned and ran. A few passers-by stopped to gawk or offer assistance, but Holmes waved them off. He hailed a cab, helped Watson to stand, and managed to get him into the vehicle.

"Baker Street! Post-haste!" he hollered to the cabbie.

Holmes turned to Watson, who was pale, shaking and sweating. Holmes was stunned; the blow had not seemed that hard, but… but the cane had been black and…

"Silver," Holmes gasped, recalling the shiny handgrip, "oh, Watson – are you alright?"

"It… it will pass," Watson gritted his teeth and shuddered, "I'm…I'm sorry, Holmes… such a stupid weakness to have!"

"We all have our vulnerabilities," Holmes reassured him, "Watson, that… that man seemed to know who… what… you are…"

"He smelled odd, Holmes; like death… I think he _was_ dead. I couldn't hear his heartbeat, and he gave off no body heat whatsoever… and there was the smell of blood on his mouth, though he had no breath..."

"Watson."

"Holmes?"

"Are you attempting to describe… a vampire?"

"I… I think so."

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

Holmes supported Watson up the stairs to the sitting room. He helped Watson to sit down, and poured him a brandy. As he carried it back, he saw Watson unbuttoning his shirt with shaking hands, pulling the material aside to inspect his chest.

"Good God," Holmes muttered, as Watson touched the black, spreading bruise that covered most of his torso, "All that… from such a relatively harmless blow?"

"It seems that we really don't like silver," Watson commented, re-buttoning his shirt and accepting the brandy, "thank you. Do you mind awfully if I… if I lie here for a moment?"

"Not at all my dear chap," Holmes replied, airily, as Watson stretched out on the settee, "I shall be here if you need anything…"

However, Watson was already asleep. Holmes summoned Mrs Hudson and asked her to send a wire to his brother to say that the papers had been recovered and could be collected from him the following morning. With that done, he took his customary seat by the fire, and began to read.

Some time later, he found a passage that he read no less than six times. Setting the journal aside, he opened all of the windows that he possibly could, and then set to work at his chemistry set.

~*~

_The night was still and clear and dark and the moon shone like deadly silver and the scents that hung in the air promised a thousand different stories… all he had to do was pick one and run and run and run and hunt and chase and pounce and kill and the taste of blood and flesh would be so, so, so sweet, quenching thirst and satiating hunger in a way no mere human meal could ever accomplish… blood and flesh… blood and flesh…_

Watson snapped awake with a gasp, his heart pounding, the vivid dream already fading from his mind. He had fallen asleep on the settee… time! What time was it?

"Holmes?"

A glance at the window confirmed his worst suspicions… the sun was beginning to set! Outside! He needed to be outside!

"Holmes!"

"Watson?"

The detective emerged from his room, finding Watson, near panic, standing by the window.

"Somewhere quiet – somewhere safe, and hidden," the doctor mumbled, "We need to get out of here, Holmes – too many people around!"

"Follow me," Holmes ordered.

"Wait! Take the gun!"

Holmes hesitated, and then, seeing Watson's fear, he obeyed. Then, together, they bolted from the house.

~*~

Holmes led Watson to a derelict old building in a condemned part of the town, down by the docks. By now, the sun was sinking low in the sky, already dipping below the horizon as the sky began to darken. The night sky was clear, and the stars were already beginning to emerge from the inky blackness as they stumbled into the warehouse, a bolt-hole Holmes had used several times in the past.

Holmes sank to his knees, gasping for breath, as Watson collapsed beside him, shaking, as if shivering uncontrollably.

"Watson?"

"Look away, Holmes…"

"But…"

"For God's sake, don't look!"

Reluctantly, Holmes looked away, and resisted the urge to cover his ears. Watson gave a low moan of pain, that became an audible gasp, and then there was that awful, tearing sound; a sob of agony that became a growl; a growl that became a roar. Holmes turned, his fingers tightening around the gun with the silver bullets. Could he do it? Could he kill Watson? He had seen the effect of a blow from a silver-tipped cane; what damage could a bullet then do?

Holmes looked around… and then looked up…

"W…Watson?"

The beast towered over him; it was not the four-legged wolf-form Holmes had seen his friend previously become. Compared to this; that was a cuddly puppy-dog… this thing stood over seven feet tall, bipedal, with snarling, slavering jaws and blood-red-rimmed eyes. Tatters of torn clothing hung from its muscular frame. There was none of Watson's familiar warmth in that gaze, nothing recognisable in the stance of the monster, as it flung back its huge head, and howled its rage at the moon.

~*~

Holmes stood, slowly, and the beast turned on him, growling with every panting breath.

"Watson," Holmes fought to keep his voice steady, "I know that's you, my dear fellow. Please, Watson – you must take control of this."

The creature glared down at him, sniffing curiously, as if trying to decide whether there was enough meat on Holmes's lean frame to make a meal of him. It dropped from a bipedal stance to walk forward on all four limbs, and Holmes could not help but admire the strength and adaptability of the shape. Hemmingway had written in detail as to the full power that was unleashed at the rise of the full moon… a power that washed away all human reason and faculty. Holmes prayed that for Watson, it would be different.

He held up a hand, and willed himself to stay rooted to the spot, fighting the urge to run. If he broke and ran, the werewolf before him would give chase; it was a simple fight or flight response, and Holmes struggled to do neither.

"Watson," he murmured, "come on, old chap, think! I know you're still in there!"

The monster who stood in place of the detective's friend growled at him, licking its muzzle in anticipation. Holmes's hand slowly moved to his pocket, and, with his thumb, he eased the cork out of the bottle that was in his jacket. He never took his eyes off the wolf, as it seemed to be reaching a decision as to what to do about the man before it.

"I am so sorry, Watson – I hope this works…"

The wolf opened his jaws and snarled; Holmes's arm blurred with movement as he flung the bottle. It hit the creature in the mouth and immediately the wolf bit down, shattering the glass. The effect was like lightening – the creature let out an agonised howl as the liquid within splashed into its mouth and face, involuntarily swallowing some of it. It leapt backwards and toppled over, crashing to the floor, whimpering and twitching. Holmes shot to its side as the movement stopped and it lay there, motionless.

"Watson?"

Holmes held his breath, hoping against hope that he had calculated the correct dosage. The wolf stirred, and whimpered, and then opened its eyes. Holmes sighed with relief – the eyes were no longer that awful blood-red colour, but a far more familiar, warm hazel. Even before it spoke, Holmes knew that Watson was once again in control of his own mind.

"Holmes," he croaked, rolling over and shaking himself, an oddly dog-like gesture, "you… you _swine_… that was aconite! _Wolfsbane_! Do you have any idea how… how _foul_ that is…?"

"If it's anything like the cough syrup you fed me the last time I had a cold, then I consider us even," Holmes replied, dryly, "it was in Hemmingway's journal. He discovered that a dose of aconite, while dangerous at any other time, was an excellent remedy to the mental effects of the full moon, though not the physical ones… unfortunately, Hemmingway observed that he rarely had the chance to take the dose in time for the change. He prefers to lock himself away. His wolf-form at full moon lacks the mental capability or the moral inclination to suppress its own nature."

"Thank God there's a remedy, at least," Watson got to his feet, and looked down at himself, "Good Heavens. What on earth do I look like?"

"I think the ladies would find you somewhat less attractive than they usually do," Holmes replied, an edge of teasing creeping into his tone at his relief, "you are somewhat… intimidating, old chap."

Watson realised for the first time that he was towering over Holmes, and he dropped back onto his haunches. Now he was in control of his own mind, he could feel the strength of his body, and the instinctive desire to run, and to hunt… he raised his head, and pricked up his ears. There were thousands of different sounds and smells on the wind, and he wanted to explore. Holmes seemed to read his mind.

"Watson. You cannot risk being seen…"

"Then we'll just have to be careful, won't we?" Watson gave him a sharp-toothed grin.

He slunk forwards, ears pricked upright, gently sniffing the air. He could smell Holmes – not just his presence, but his curiosity, concern, warmth – no fear. Watson smiled; probably not the warm gesture that he meant it as. Holmes was not afraid of him, and that encouraged and warmed him deeply.

Watson padded over to the door on all fours, and then pushed it open. If aconite could keep at bay the overwhelming urge to hunt and kill at the full moon, then he could revel in the power of the anthropomorphic wolf-form he now found himself in. Holmes was at his side, glancing around warily.

They walked around the docklands for several hours, well into the early hours of the morning, talking in low voices, exchanging observations and deductions, as Watson practiced and honed his new-found senses. Suddenly, Watson sniffed the air, and wrinkled his nose.

"Holmes," he said, in a low voice, "the vampire… if that's what he is… he's nearby."

"Hemmingway wrote of him in his journal," Holmes replied, in a low voice, "his name is Sir Isaiah Bryce; he appears in my own records. I suspected him in the disappearances of two women, several years ago, but there was no evidence to connect him to the crime. Hemmingway refers to him as a mortal enemy, though the two rarely engaged in direct encounters – I think Hemmingway feared him."

"If he carries that silver cane with him wherever he goes, I'm not surprised," Watson growled, as they prowled their way down a dark alleyway between buildings, "Holmes, did you bring any more of that aconite? How long will the dosage last?"

"I have one more bottle. One dose, however, should see you through the night, old chap. There is more at home just in case."

"We should aim to be home before it gets light," Watson muttered, "I have no desire to change back before I am well hidden from the eyes of the world."

Holmes nodded his understanding.

"Tell me more about Bryce," Watson said, pausing in an alley and shrinking back into shadows as a figure staggered by at the end of the street, singing drunkenly.

"Hemmingway says that Bryce has lived in the city for nearly two hundred years," Holmes whispered, as they resumed their walking, "he was already here when Hemmingway returned from a holiday in Scotland, where he had been… converted… by an uncle. In Hemmingway's youth, they frequently fought, but as he got older, he grew more afraid of Bryce. Apparently, Bryce… Bryce is a hunter."

"He's a vampire. He likes blood."

"He also likes trophies. Apparently, he has several fine furs and taxidermies… including several wolves. He is a renowned game-hunter."

"I thought vampires couldn't go out in sunlight."

"We encountered him in daylight," Holmes pointed out, ducking back into shadows as Watson held back a massive paw, pressing them both down into hiding, "he was well wrapped up against it, but he seemed fairly immune… not all of the mythology is accurate, I would say."

"Well, if I get the chance, I'd like to find out how he fares against a wooden stake," Watson snarled, quietly, "the man's a murderer – I could smell the blood on him. Human blood."

"Hemmingway thought he might be praying on poor folk, beggars and prostitutes," Holmes murmured, "people that he thought would not be missed. Hemmingway commented that the bodies never turned up; he never found out what happened to them."

Watson's ears pricked up; Holmes suppressed an urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of their situation.

"He's near," Watson breathed, his nose twitching slightly, "Holmes… I think… I think he's hunting me!"

"I would not be surprised," Holmes said, glancing around in near-pitch blackness, "be alert, Watson; he thinks you are a blood-crazed animal – it is the one night of the month that he does not expect you to think with human reason. And he will be armed, Watson, with weapons effective against both of us."

Watson nodded, raised his head, and sniffed the air.

"Cover your ears, Holmes…and stand back!"

Holmes did as he was bid, as Watson threw back his head and howled; a deafening, mournful, angry sound. Dropping down to all fours, he padded around, sniffing the shadows, his tail bristling. He crossed back to Holmes, shaking his head.

"I know he's nearby," Watson growled, "he's here somewhere, I can smell him…"

Holmes sensed, rather than saw, movement above them.

"The roof!" he realised.

Watson made the same conclusion at the same time and leapt sideways, knocking Holmes to the floor, as a bullet smacked harmlessly into the wall close to where Watson had been standing. Watson growled, and Holmes felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Silver," the detective said, in disgust, examining the bullet in the wall.

"He's still on the roof," Watson drew back his lips in a snarl, revealing sharp, white fangs that shone in the light of the moon, "we need to gain higher ground, Holmes!"

"I have failed to observe any way up the… ah!"

This last exclamation was elicited when Watson suddenly launched himself at the wall, scaling it with ease, sinking claws into the brick and mortar and scrambling up onto the roof. Holmes swore under his breath, and ran around the building. He broke into the condemned house, scaled the stairs, and made his way up to the attic. The decrepit building was slowly falling in on itself; Holmes found a hole in the roof that he could climb through, and he heaved himself up onto the eaves, bracing himself against the cold wind. He found a flat space to stand at the apex of the roof, and stood, his eyes scouring the skyline.

"Watson!" he shouted, glancing around.

He glanced around, and saw Bryce; silhouetted on a neighbouring rooftop, a slim hunting rifle gripped in his thin, white hand. There was no sign of Watson. Bryce turned, and saw him, and laughed. The vampire – Holmes could barely credit the word – leapt from his rooftop and crashed down heavily onto the slates near Holmes, the rifle looking deadly in the half-light.

"Ah! The great Sherlock Holmes!" Bryce laughed, scornfully, "How little you know, my poor fellow; yet how much you must have learned. I was delighted to find new prey in the city; it is so tiresome to travel abroad to engage in a decent hunt. Humans are such unworthy prey."

"Where is Watson?"

"The wolf? I was almost pleased that my first shot missed – it has been ages since I last felt the thrill of the chase," Bryce replied, evasively, "that damn-fool Hemmingway grew so dull in his old age; it is true, you can't teach old dogs new tricks. He hides and rots and howls in that self-made prison cell. Now… now I find a new wolf in London, a worthy trophy for my wall."

"Why do you kill them?"

"Vermin that they are!" Bryce spat, "Filthy dogs. I have killed seventeen in my lifetime. Seventeen! All great specimens, but not one caught in full transfiguration by the light of the full moon. Your mutt will make quite a trophy, Holmes."

Holmes gritted his teeth, hating the creature that stood before him and spoke of his friend with such contempt.

"They really do become lunatics at this time of the month," Bryce grinned, revealing two very sharp-looking incisors, "I'm surprised he hasn't ripped your throat out already. I'll wager that change came as quite a shock – they do tend to hide their true nature from their nearest and dearest until it is too late."

"And what of your true nature?" Holmes pressed.

He could see Watson now, prowling along the neighbouring rooftop, padding silently towards Bryce, teeth bared, ears pressed back against his skull.

"Have you not deduced it?" Bryce mocked him, "I am the night stalker. I am living death. I am the blood-thirst. I am your death, Mr Holmes."

Bryce suddenly bared his fangs, and launched himself at Holmes, clawed fingers outstretched. At the same moment, Watson gave an enraged snarl, and leapt from the neighbouring rooftop. The powerful pounce carried him right into Bryce, and, locked together, they went toppling off the rooftop, crashing to the ground below. Holmes wasted no time – he slithered back through the hole in the roof, ran back down the stairs, and exploded out into the alleyway, immediately having to throw himself to one side as Watson went crashing into the wall and slithered to the floor.

Holmes blinked in surprise; Bryce had bodily lifted his friend above his head and thrown him against the wall. Watson shook himself off and got to his feet, growling. Holmes could see the redness returning to his eyes, and took a bottle from his pocket.

"Watson, don't loose control!"

The werewolf turned on him, jaws open. Holmes tossed the bottle, and Watson crushed it between his powerful jaws, swallowing the foul contents. He shuddered, and staggered sideways, but kept his balance. Bryce had recovered his balance, though his rifle was gone – instead, he drew a wickedly sharp-looking dagger, with a curved blade roughly nine inches long. Watson snarled at him, crouched in front of Holmes, one hand braced on the floor, ready to pounce; the other hand-paw raised high, sharp claws ready to strike.

"What is this?" Bryce hesitated for a moment, amusement twitching his face into a cold smile, "A wolf at full moon in control of his limited faculties? My, my… a challenge at last!"

"What do you want, Bryce?" growled Watson, lowering his claws.

"I want your hide on my floor and your head on my wall," Bryce replied, coldly, "I want the world rid of your flea-bitten kind, you mangy dog!"

Bryce leapt, and Watson swatted him out of the air, sending him slamming into a wall. Bryce landed as if he hadn't felt the blow, and charged again. Watson hit him with a swipe of his paw that would have decapitated a mortal; Bryce, however, blocked the blow and lunged forwards with the knife. Watson twisted and leapt aside, as Holmes cast his eyes around for a weapon, reluctant to leave Watson to face the vampire alone. Bryce laughed, goading, the knife gripped tightly in his right hand as the two opponents circled each other warily.

"Why do you want me dead?" Watson asked, carefully, not taking his eyes off his opponent.

"Your kind is a plague on this earth," Bryce replied, disdainfully, "our kind has been at war for centuries. Your transformation is recent, I have realised this, and you are unique. I have never met one of your kind so capable of controlling your feral nature. The rest of you are little more than beasts."

"Why are we at war? I mean you no harm. We can share this city, if it's territory you need..."

"Never," Bryce replied, tossing the knife from one hand to the other as they circled, "it was one of your kind that killed my beloved… my wife… my Jessica… it was the generosity of another blood-lord that granted me my eternal task, and my quest for revenge."

"I'm sorry for your loss, but it had nothing to do with me," Watson replied, honestly, "I do not hunt. I do not kill. You do; you have killed people's wives, husbands, sons, daughters – everyone you have ever killed was loved by someone in the same way that you loved your wife. Did you never, in two hundred years, stop to think of the families of those whose blood you drained to sustain yourself? You have revisited your own pain a thousand times over on innocents who did nothing to deserve it!"

"Lies! They are mortals! Mortals are nothing!"

"Your wife was mortal!" Watson shot back at him.

"Don't you dare speak of her!"

Bryce screamed in fury and threw himself at Watson, the knife outstretched. The vampire possessed a strength that matched Watson's own, but Watson sprang upwards and over him, allowing Bryce to crash face first into the dirt. Sprawling, the vampire cursed him in a half-a-dozen languages, turning to glare at him with unadulterated hatred.

"Oh, Hemmingway was never so much fun as you," Bryce spat, "I haven't had a challenge like you in over forty years."

Watson crouched, defensive, wondering where Holmes had got to. His scent was still strong in the air; he was nearby, no doubt putting that great brain of his to work on the task at hand; how to defeat a vampire locked in combat with a werewolf. Watson almost laughed at the absurdity of the notion, and would have done, were he not stood there, experiencing it. It was real, it was happening, and he couldn't afford to loose himself now.

"We can work this out," he offered, "I have no desire to kill you."

"Then I shall kill you!"

Bryce flung the knife. Watson tried to leap out of the way, but the dagger hit him in the left shoulder. Cold fire slammed into him and he yelped in pain. White-hot pain radiated from the impact; he had never felt an agony like it. With a howl, he crashed to the floor, scrabbling desperately at the air as if he could run from the burning in his shoulder.

"You fool," Bryce whispered, gleefully, standing over him, "your kind is weak, pathetic; the blade is silver, you idiot. Even now it drains your strength, like arsenic to a human. Such an easy vulnerability to exploit…"

"Not as easy as a vulnerability to wood, Bryce."

Holmes's cold voice cut through the haze of pain, and Watson managed to raise his head slightly, panting. He saw the detective looming over Bryce. The vampire turned and bared his fangs in anger, but Holmes had caught him by surprise. Holmes moved like lightning, and Bryce manage little but a gurgling scream as Holmes rammed a wooden stake into his chest, slamming him to the floor.

Bryce hissed, wordlessly, clawing at the wooden shaft, before he fell back. Holmes watched as the body twitched once, and then lay still. Slowly, the corpse seemed to collapse in on itself, as centuries of delayed decay set in. Within minutes, there was nothing but dust, which was quickly blown away by the wind.

The stake, nothing but a jagged piece of wood Holmes had found in the alleyway, hovered there for a moment, and then clattered to the ground. Bryce was gone.

~*~


	10. Chapter 10

Holmes fell to his knees beside Watson, who was whimpering in pain, shudders wracking his muscular lycanthropic body.

"Watson," Holmes gently reached out towards the blade, "I am sorry, my dear fellow… but I must remove the knife…"

He grasped the blade firmly, and pulled it free, grimacing at the sight of the dark blood in the half-light of the moon. Watson flinched, but made no other sound or movement. Holmes waited for any sign that the wound was healing, as he had expected, but frowned when there was no sign that the bleeding was stopping.

"Holmes… the blade… silver… get rid of it!"

Holmes stared at the weapon in his hand – of course! The proximity of the metal sapped Watson's strength, and no doubt prevented the wound from closing… Holmes got to his feet, running as fast as he could; the Thames was nearby – he reached the bank, and flung the knife with all of his might. It flashed in the moonlight, and then disappeared into the murky waters with a splash.

Holmes came back to the alley to find Watson trying to stand; the wound still oozed blood, but he favoured the damaged arm, limping forwards on three limbs.

"We should… we should return to Baker Street," Watson whispered, even as he panted with pain and exhaustion, "if… if we take the back routes… no one will see."

"My dear Watson; surely you should rest a while, to see if the wound will close on its own? You have remarkable powers of healing."

"I also have remarkable hearing," Watson replied, "our little encounter with Bryce has attracted some attention; police whistles are blowing all over the city. There are several constables on their way as we speak."

"Damn," Holmes said, softly, "I so rarely have cause to curse the Yard for efficiency! This way, Watson; we will not be seen."

Holmes led his wounded friend through several back-alleys, running parallel to the main roads, keeping out of sight, often having to hide in shadows to avoid people who passed them by without a glance. Once, a stray dog opened its mouth the bark at Holmes; Watson emerged from the shadows behind the detective, and growled at it. The dog whimpered and rolled onto its back, and they passed by silently.

Eventually, they reached the back of their Baker Street lodgings.

"We cannot go through the back door," Holmes whispered, "Mrs Hudson sleeps right next the kitchen. The last time I tried it, I woke her and she nearly knocked me out with a rolling pin, thinking me a burglar."

"The window is open," Watson pointed, "I can climb the wall, and squeeze through it…"

"Watson, your shoulder…"

"The bleeding has all but stopped. I can manage, if you can make it up the drainpipe."

"It would not be the first time."

The two of them scaled the wall, effectively breaking into their own home. The fire blazed merrily in the hearth, and Mrs Hudson had left a covered plate of sandwiches on the table with a low-lit gas lamp and a pitcher of water. She was used to her tenants being out at odd hours, but, to her mind, this did not mean that they should skip meals.

Holmes closed the window behind them as Watson crawled along the floor and slumped down on the rug in front of the fire. Holmes knelt beside him and examined the wound in his shoulder; the bleeding had opened up again. Holmes fetched a towel, soaked it in water, and pressed it firmly over the injury. Watson gave a low, canine whine of pain, but made no other sound.

The fact that the wound had not yet healed worried him, and he caught Watson looking at him.

"Upstairs," Watson panted, fixing Holmes with an urgent, pleading look, "I need to get upstairs, before… before sunrise…"

Holmes nodded in understanding, standing back to allow Watson to haul himself to all fours. Holmes went ahead, opening the doors, as Watson limped up the stairs, to his bedroom. He glanced at the bed, dubiously, and then lay down on the floor instead. Holmes glanced at him, and replaced the blood-stained towel over the shoulder wound. He then went to the wardrobe, and laid out some fresh clothes. Crossing to the window, he glanced outside. The sky was beginning to lighten.

"Holmes…"

He turned around at the pained, gravely whisper. Watson was struggling to get up, trying to stand.

"Watson?"

"Leave me… please… it's happening again…"

Wanting desperately to assist, Holmes hesitated, but it was only respect for Watson's privacy and his friend's fierce pride that forced him to turn his back. He would stay, but he would not watch. He covered his face with his hands despairingly as a canine whimper became a very human moan, a low, agonized sound. Holmes did not turn at the sounds of movements, allowing Watson a moment to prepare himself. He heard the creak of bed springs and a rustle of blankets, and then he finally turned around.

Watson had made it into the bed, pain and exhaustion written on his pale features. Holmes crossed over to him, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Watson had donned trousers, but had not bothered with a night-shirt. The wound to his shoulder was red and ugly; crusted with dried blood and already blackening with bruising. Watson's hand flicked towards it, but his energy was too spent for him to do anything practical.

"Leave it to me, old fellow," Holmes told him, quietly.

He went downstairs and retrieved the medical kit, returning to the upper room. He dressed the wound, and administered a dose of morphine for the pain. Watson looked at him blearily, and Holmes gave him a gentle smile.

"Rest now, my dear fellow," Holmes told him, softly, "dawn is here, and you are safe."

"Holmes… I… I never thanked you… for the aconite…"

"Do not dwell on it, Watson. It is not every day a man is thanked for poisoning his friend…!"

~*~

It was gone midday before Watson finally awoke. Late sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, and he glanced around, fuzzily. His shoulder ached, and, examining the wound, he winced; it was still open and ugly. It seemed silver-induced injuries were a lot harder to recover from than what he was coming to think of as 'normal' wounds. Had Holmes not removed and disposed of the knife, Watson had no doubt he might have lain there and simply bled to death helplessly. Holmes had dressed the wound neatly, so Watson simply replaced the bandage.

He rose, and carefully got dressed. His arm was stiff, sluggish, the shoulder burning with pain, his hand swollen and heavy. He was sweating a little by the time he was dressed, though he had already checked and the wound was not infected. Reluctantly, he tied up a rudimentary sling from the triangular bandage in his kit, slipped it over his head, and awkwardly worked his arm into it. That should keep the pain and swelling at bay…

Satisfied with his self-treatment, Watson stepped out of his room, and heard voices downstairs. When he entered the sitting room, he found what his senses had already told him that he would; Holmes and Lestrade, engaged in some sort of argument. Lestrade looked annoyed, while Holmes had adopted his most irritatingly casual air.

"…But if there is no body, how can you expect me to deduce a crime from some distant noises and a few blood traces?" Holmes was saying, "Ah! Watson. How are you feeling, old chap? I was just telling Lestrade that the bite from the hound wasn't quite so healed as you managed to lead us to believe…"

"Oh… yes, of course," Watson touched the sling, and winced, "fine, thank you…"

Watson nodded to Lestrade, favouring him with a pained smile, as he eased himself into his armchair. The wound still burned, but the pain had lessened, and he tuned into the conversation.

"Perhaps you can talk him into helping us, doctor," Lestrade grumbled.

"The Inspector was just telling me that there was an incident in the docklands last night," Holmes said, in a deceptively light tone, "apparently, witnesses heard the sounds of a violent fight, but when the nearest constables arrived, they found nothing but a few blood traces."

"Then I fail to see what there is to investigate," Watson yawned, not having to pretend his weariness; oh, how he was beginning to loathe silver!

"Witnesses heard a dog howling, and reported that they thought a wild dog had been set on someone," Lestrade replied, "God knows, Holmes, I've had enough of cases about rabid dogs!"

"I still fail to see what you expect me to do about it," Holmes rejoined, "especially as there is no body and no witnesses who actually saw anything."

"So you're not interested?"

"I have already tracked down one gigantic hound this week," Holmes waved his hand dismissively; "I doubt some stray mutt will be of much interest after that. Send out a dog-catcher, Lestrade; don't waste my time with trivialities."

"Fine," Lestrade sighed, and stood, "I just thought it might interest you; I know you haven't had any decent cases since Dartmoor…"

"And if you brought me a decent case, Lestrade, I would be interested," Holmes said, dryly.

"Then I'll leave you to your boredom," Lestrade shot back, getting to his feet, "Good day, gentlemen…"

He touched his hat respectfully, and left quietly. There was a long moment of silence, before they heard the front door slam.

"At least we were not observed," Watson commented, at last.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Healing, slowly… that is to say, much faster than it ought to and slower than any other wound I have had since the hound's bite!"

Holmes crossed to the table, and poured him a cup of tea from the pot on the table. Watson accepted it with thanks with his good hand, as Holmes sat down in the chair beside him. A companionable silence stretched between them.

"Holmes," Watson said at last, "what are you thinking? I can smell the curiosity on you…"

"Ah! I am going to have to work harder to disguise things from you," Holmes exclaimed, "my apologies Watson. I was merely wondering how you are… how you are coping?"

"Well enough," Watson replied, with a shrug and a wince, "I think… I shall continue to research the condition, and hope for a cure. Now we know that we can control the worst of it, we can make the best of it."

"Agreed… your abilities could prove very useful in our cases," Holmes remarked.

"And I've always wanted a pet dog…" Watson joked.

"Maybe we should get you a collar," Holmes smirked, "and a leash – I could take you for walks around Hyde Park – it would be an excellent disguise for trailing someone!"

"Holmes!"

~*~

FINIS

~*~

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you thought. I was tempted to find a way to "heal" Watson, but I am selfish - I so much enjoyed writing him as a friendly werewolf that I might well do a sequel! If anyone has any ideas/suggestions - I think you call them "plot bunnies"? - please do send them my way. Cheers!_


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